Children of Strife and Children of Peace: 9:01-9:10 Dragon
by LMSharp
Summary: "Andvar thrust his thick, calloused finger in the baby's direction without looking at him, still glaring at Bartrand. 'He's cursed like you're cursed, rejected and forgotten by the Stone! Because of me! '" One-shots set across Thedas in the lives of several characters. Series Part One, feat. Varric, Fenris, Cassandra, Cullen, F!Hawke, and F!Cousland. AU elements. T for safety.
1. Varric: An Exile Born

**Characters: **Andvar Tethras, Ilsa Tethras, Bartrand Tethras, Varric Tethras

**Pairings: **Andvar/Ilsa Tethras

**AU Elements: **Ilsa Tethras is not an alcoholic.

* * *

**9:01 Dragon**

**Kirkwall**

"Can you shut him up?" Andvar growled. He did not look back at Ilsa, sweating and exhausted on the bed in the small stone house, but instead raised his ale to his lips and quaffed, staring darkly into the dim back corner. Droplets of ale ran down the sides of his moustache and into his full blond beard. Behind him, Andvar's newborn son kept screaming.

"Hush, little one," Ilsa murmured, bouncing the red-faced infant in her arms. A tuft of golden hair was visible above the old, worn blanket wrapped around the boy. The blanket had once been of very fine quality, with gold thread interwoven into the finest wool from the Ferelden South Reach and dyed a deep, russet red you could only get with the choicest dyes from Antiva. The blanket was faded now, brown in some places and pink in others, discolored from years of washing and hard usage on the road.

The boy seemed as though he might settle for a moment, but then his face scrunched all the more and he let out another wail.

"He's so loud," said another boy from where he stood at the foot of the bed. He was older, around eight years of age. He was a strong, solidly built child, his father in miniature, from the thick golden hair he kept trimmed ruthlessly short to his very pale gray eyes and stubborn mouth. His clothes fit well, and like his brother's blanket, had once been of fine quality, of good fabrics and classic cuts, but a mended tear underneath the left arm and a faded stain on his breeches leg gave the outfit the slightly depressed look of a secondhand find. "Didn't think he'd sound that way. What's he got to cry about?"

Andvar snorted at the table, but Ilsa answered her son quietly. "He's frightened, Bartrand. Imagine if you were him. He's been warm and safe and in the dark all this time. It's all he's ever known. Now everything's big and open and bright. He's cold, and he's confused. Things are happening all around him, and he doesn't know enough to understand what they are yet."

"Blessing enough for him," Andvar muttered. "Like as not all he'll ever know." He shook his head. His pale eyes were bloodshot and empty. "Born like a fly on the skin of the world." He turned to his elder son then. "The Stone knew you once, boy. It will never know your brother. You tell him. You tell him what it was like."

Ilsa sighed. She closed her eyes for a moment, hugging her son to her chest. A tear squeezed out from under her lids and ran down her prematurely lined face before falling off her chin and onto the baby's head. He quieted again. As more tears fell on his face, he stuck his small pink tongue out to taste them. Ilsa adjusted his wrappings and lay back to feed him.

Bartrand watched, fascinated with the tiny life in his mother's arms, his brother. His broad, strong young face was serious. "He won't remember Orzammar. Not even a little," he observed. "Maybe it's better that way, Father," he said suddenly.

"Bite your tongue, boy!" Andvar roared, lurching up from the table and moving astonishingly quickly to loom over his son, fists clenched. The baby, startled by the sudden shout, shoved away from Ilsa's breast and began crying again. Andvar thrust his thick, calloused finger in the baby's direction without looking at him, still glaring at Bartrand. "He's cursed like you're cursed, rejected and forgotten by the Stone! Because of me!" His face was dark with shame and grief, and the ale fumes curled from his mouth so strongly that Bartrand's nose wrinkled instinctively. Andvar didn't back away. He staggered on his feet. "Better he forgets where he came from too, live in ignorance? No! They've struck our names from the Memories, boy, so _we_ keep them," he said with emphasis, beating his breast and nodding his head at a crude scratching by the door on the stone wall of the house. "_We_ remember the truth. Who are we?"

"We are House Tethras," Bartrand recited, as he'd been taught. "Descended from kings and Paragons. Princes among dwarves. Until the exile."

"Until the exile," Andvar repeated, calming. His fingers found a heavy gold ring on a necklace he wore and closed around it. His clothes were dirtier and more mended than his son's, but this one item shone bright and polished. His hand dropped down to Bartrand's shoulder. The boy shifted under its weight. "Good. Good boy. You remember. You tell him."

He stumbled back to his table and his ale. Bartrand watched him for a moment and then turned back to his mother and new brother. The baby had quieted again and was drinking greedily, eyes buttoned closed, fists grabbing and releasing at his blanket and the folds of Ilsa's nightgown. "Need anything, Mother?" Bartrand asked.

"No, darling," she said. "You should go play while you can. It will be dark soon, and you know it's not safe after dark."

Bartrand shook his head. "I'd rather stay here," he told her, sitting softly at the end of the bed and placing his hand over his mother's foot under the sheets. "I never had a brother before."

* * *

**A/N: ****So I lost weeks of work on my Mass Effect story, failed to get it back, sulked for weeks more, and eventually decided I needed a break. When my brain resets for Mass Effect, I will be continuing _Sometimes Grace_, but until then, this has been nagging at me, and I thought I'd play around with Dragon Age for a while. So welcome to The Subjects and the Singers of the Song, a chronological series of one-shots about the lives of ten characters in my Dragon Age universe. I don't really think of it as a story but rather as a sort of symphony, featuring many different instruments, each with their own melody. Here there are siblings who hate one another and siblings who couldn't survive without one another, the worst, most abusive types of parents alongside some of the best. Here there are polytheists, Stone-worshippers, the most devout Andrastians, and skeptics side by side. Here there are characters steeped in white male privilege and characters who see the ugliest things poverty, sexism, and racism have to offer. Forget the darkspawn; this is the Thedas I love, because in all its dysfunction and broken beauty, it looks so much like home. **

**Now, these stories are not all strictly canon, because sometimes canon interfered with the story I wanted to tell. I'll list AU elements at the beginning of every chapter along with the character tags and pairings, but for this part of the series, this is what you need to know:**

**1) Andvar Tethras does not die when Varric is two years old. **

**2) Cullen Rutherford is some six years older than the Dragon Age wiki estimates. In _Origins_, _DA2_, and _Inquisition_, he looks older than someone supposedly born in 9:11, and in addition, I found it unbelievable that Meredith would make a twenty-year-old Templar of only two years' experience a captain. So he's aged up. **

**3) Cullen is also now the third child and the second son instead of the second child and the first son in his family. He will still have a younger sister, but his brother, Branson, is now older. This is simply out of deference to medieval/Renaissance-analogous cultural norms. **

**4) William Cousland, father of Bryce and grandfather to Fergus, is not dead yet but is still teyrn in Highever from 9:01-9:10. Bryce Cousland is teyrn-in-waiting. This change was made because I wanted one of my characters to have a strong relationship with a grandparent, and it felt like it had to be Cousland.**

**5) Finally, one plot point that may not actually be AU due to Danarius's history of lying and generally being an awful person: Despite what Fenris was told, he is _not_ from Seheron. He picks up Qunlat due to geographic proximity and factors which will become clearer later on, but in this story, he is born and lives the first twelve years of his life in Ventus (or Qarinus), just south of Seheron and across the channel. **

**Aware this fic is weird, but I hope someone out there enjoys it. Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	2. Leto: Don't Take Him Away

**Characters: **OFC Sulin, Varania, Leto (Fenris), OFC Risa, OFC Mistress Bellisti, OFC Aster Bellisti

**Pairings: **None

**AU Elements:** This may not be actually AU, as it's established Danarius is a liar, but Leto is born in Ventus, across the channel from Seheron and not actually on it.

* * *

**9:03 Dragon**

**Ventus, The Tevinter Imperium**

Yesterday, Master had sent a midwife for Mother. She had crowded into their tiny room in the slave's quarters, kept Varania busy bringing water and cloths and shooing the flies away, and, eventually, helped Mother bring Varania's little brother into the world.

He was so tiny and squishy-looking, red and loud and messy. Mother, panting hard and sweating and bleeding, had cried again when she saw his ears. Varania hadn't known if Mother was happy or sad, because she'd just hugged Varania's little brother to her again and hadn't said anything else about it.

The midwife had helped them clean Varania's little brother up and made sure Mother wasn't going to get a fever then left to go report to the Master. He had another elven boy-slave. Varania wasn't sure if Master would be pleased or not. There was always plenty of work, and more boys needed for the crops than anything else, but Master often complained slaves ate more than they were worth. Last week Varania had heard him ask Mother what was another elf's brat but one more mouth to feed? And it would be a long time before Varania's little brother could do any work—four years at least.

Mother said Master was kinder than most, that he whined a lot but didn't mean half of what he said. "He didn't have to send Anaia, Verry," she'd whispered, rocking Varania's little brother on the bed. "Many would just leave the off-duty slaves to help their own. He honors what I do for the Mistress—and what you'll do for him one day, Verry."

Verania had frowned at that. Last winter, Mistress Aster, Mistress's mother, had spotted Verania making the thread Mother used shiny and called it magic. That meant she was a very special slave indeed. If Master _invested_ in Verania, Mistress Aster had said, sent her to the right teachers, Verania could learn things that could make Master a powerful man indeed, or turn a healthy profit, or just make his house run more smoothly—depending on how clever Verania was and how _much_ magic she had. Unfortunately, Mistress Aster, who had been teaching her until Master could find someone better, didn't seem to think Verania had very much magic at all, really. If she didn't learn how to get more and do better, Master might be angry. Would he want to help them then?

Mother believed she could be a good girl, learn what she was supposed to. But she knew Varania was worried she couldn't, so when she saw Varania frown, she held up her arm to hug Varania too, as well as her brother, and told Varania a little more about babies and what it meant to be a big sister.

They'd decided to call the baby Leto. It was Varania's favorite name out of all the ones she and Mother had thought of. It was hard to tell yet if he looked like a Leto or not. Mother said he'd probably grow into it, but Varania wasn't sure if she believed Mother about that. Mother also said Leto was beautiful, and Varania didn't think he looked like much of anything.

Varania watched him in Mother's arms now, thinking hard. He wasn't as red as he'd been yesterday, and he was quiet right now, just looking up at their room with stupid-looking blue eyes. Mother said he couldn't see much yet, and that they might not always be blue. They could be brown, or gold like Mother's, or green like Varania's. His hair would probably be darker. He was bald on top now, but he had dark eyebrows.

Leto tugged at Mother's hair, and she laughed softly and touched his squashy nose. Varania scowled. Mother would fuss at her if _she_ pulled someone's hair.

There was a loud rap inside the doorframe, and Varania and Mother looked around to see Risa from the kitchens, looking very sorry. "Mistress wants you, Sulin," she said. "She's got that party tomorrow night and insists you help fit the lot of them and do the alterations."

Mother smiled. "Well, it's nice to be needed, isn't it?" she said. "Verry, let's go. Mistress needs us. Risa, you don't think you could run to the fieldhouse and ask Theod's wife Jillian for the sling she used for her babe last year? Cressid's walking now, and Leto won't wait for his mother yet."

Risa bit her lip. "Cookie'll lash my knuckles if I'm gone too much longer." She looked down at Leto, at Mother as she struggled to stand. "I'll be right back," she agreed, and dashed away.

Mother was still bleeding every now and then, a little, but when Mistress called, you went. Verania helped Mother into the dress she'd been wearing yesterday. She looked hard at the fabric and twisted her wrist, and a little—very little—of the mess on it fell off and back to the earth. "Thanks, sweetheart," Mother said. Verania held up her hand to Mother, but saw both of Mother's arms were around Leto. She walked behind Mother instead as they left the house slave quarters instead. At least Cookie hadn't called for _her_ yet this morning.

As they walked, Leto started to whimper, and then to cry, and by the time they got to Mistress, he was _howling_. Verania stuffed her fingers in her ears. "Hush, Leto," she said, as Mother tried to bounce him up and down, putting the knuckle of her forefinger in his great, red mouth to quiet him.

Mistress looked up when they came in the room, her face pinched and irritable. "Sulin, didn't you think to shut him up before coming? Maker, the noise just goes through your head!"

"The difference between an elvish brat and a freeborn, dearie," Mistress Aster told her daughter. "Little Xenia is an absolute gift. Every time we visit the nursery!"

Verania bit back her scowl. Peg and Isla talked often enough about the Little Mistress's fits when her lady mother and grandmother _weren't_ visiting. All babies cried. Mistress and Mistress Aster just only ever went to see the Little Mistress when she was asleep, that was all. But it wasn't her place to tell _them_.

"He's never been out of the slave quarters yet, Mistress," Mother told them. "I'm sure he'll calm down in just a minute, and I have Risa running to get me a sling so I can have my hands free for your fittings. Were the mistresses pleased with their gowns for Signori Bellisti's party?"

She looked over their dresses, but Varania could already see the problems. The hem on Mistress's was crooked, the color more purple than it had been on the fabric sample the merchant had shown them. Mistress Aster's gown gapped in front, and even though she'd asked for the bows on the bodice, her wrinkled hands plucked at them now like she would have preferred the gold chains. Varania stepped away from Mother to head for the sewing basket. Mother would need pins and a marker.

Mistress and her mother complained, their voices getting louder all the time, like they were trying to be heard over Leto. He would not quiet but kept screaming, louder and louder. Was he hungry? Wet? Or did he just not like Mistress Aster either? He was smarter than Varania would have thought a baby would be, then, but not smart enough to know you couldn't _tell_ her.

"Hush, Leto," she murmured under her breath again and again, as her Mistress and Mistress Aster got angrier and angrier, beginning to scream themselves.

When Risa got back from the fieldhouse with the sling, Mistress strode forward at once. She snatched the sling from Risa, took two more steps, and extended her arms to Mother expectantly.

"Oh, Mistress, please don't. I can come back later, after he's calm," Mother said.

"The party is _tomorrow_," Mistress seethed. "Should Mother and I have subpar gowns for a _slave's_ convenience? You have _work_ to do, Sulin. Give him to me. Now."

"Don't, please don't take him away. I'm his mother."

"If he gets hungry, Jillian in the fieldhouse is still nursing her brat. She'll be well able to care for him," Mistress snapped. "You can see him later after your work is done. The _boy_, Sulin, or shall I have to call Dain?"

Mother flinched at the name of the house enforcer. She shook her head and held Leto out in trembling hands. Mistress wrapped him twice in the sling Risa had brought and thrust him down and to the side at Varania. Varania almost let Leto fall before she realized what Mistress wanted. Then she wrapped the sling around her body once to help her hold her brother.

He squirmed and yelled against her, pummeling her with fists and tiny feet, face hot and wet with tears against Varania's smock.

"See to your brother, girl," Mistress commanded. "_Away_ from here. Your mother has work to do, and now, so do you." She turned to Mistress Aster. "The girl doesn't have a regular task yet, does she?"

"She helps her mother, sweeps out chimneys in the morning, runs errands, and turns the spit in the kitchen in the evenings," Mistress Aster said. "And she has magic lessons with me every third afternoon, which have so far been a waste of my time. She'll have time to see to her brother when we've need of her mother."

"Good," Mistress decided. "You hear that, girl? See to him. If _we_ hear _him_, you'll pay for it. Understand?"

"Yes, Mistress," Varania said, trying to curtsey without dropping Leto.

"Then go."

Varania looked one last time at Mother before she obeyed. Mother's hands trembled. Her face was pale, and her eyes shone, but she tried to smile at Varania anyway. She was picking up the pins from the sewing basket as Varania ran away, trying to get as far from the Master and Mistress's part of the house as she could.

"Hush, Leto, hush," Varania said, trying to bounce Leto as Mother had. She couldn't. She was afraid she would drop him. She was a big girl, and he was only a baby, but he wasn't _that_ much smaller than she was. The sling was heavy on Verania's neck. But it would hurt worse if she got a whipping.

* * *

**A/N: So, I feel like the first question anyone will have about this chapter is "Who was Fenris's father?" (Because of course Leto grows up to be Fenris.) Here's the thing, though, his absence is absolutely intentional and a big part of the point.**

**In this fic, I'm going to touch on some mature, real-world, and potentially triggering themes and social situations. My aim is not to exploit the almost-always canon back stories for cheap drama but instead to use them like a mirror to reflect real-world issues—both historic and current. My favorite thing about the Dragon Age 'verse isn't the dragons or the darkspawn or the magic—it's fantasy nations that are analogous to historic ones and social structures that could feasibly evolve among fantasy races that look just like ours. So, in Dragon Age, there are people that exist in soul-crushing, societally enforced, and seemingly inescapable poverty—just like in our world. In Dragon Age, political upheaval leaves children orphaned and hurting—just like in our world. In Dragon Age, institutionalized racism kills—just like in our world. In Dragon Age, refugees and immigrants, however well-intentioned and beneficial to a community, are feared and demonized—just like in our world. In this series, my writing about these issues is a little Dickensian. If readers hurt for the characters in a certain chapter, the intention is to incline them toward compassion for those in similar situations in the real world. Maybe it's a little preachy, but a sermon every now and then can be helpful.**

**There are millions of United States citizens today still suffering from the ongoing societal echoes of centuries of institutionalized slavery. Millions more suffer in illegal or underground slavery that is ignored or unprosecuted by businesses or governments that profit from it. And slavery is devastating—on an individual psychological level, to families, and to society as a whole. **

**Why doesn't Leto have a father? Why doesn't Varania? Because Sulin is a slave. Her master or masters have had no obligation to recognize the legitimacy of any consensual sexual relationships she may have entered into with other slaves. Any slave partner or partners she may have had could be killed, sold, or moved with impunity by their own respective master or masters. On an even darker note, Sulin is property. Her body does not belong to her, and thus may have been used by freemen as they wished, who likewise would have had no obligation to be mindful of any consequences for Sulin. So: Varania and Leto don't have fathers. Fathers are irrelevant to a slave.**

**I'm giving Sulin her privacy. I just want you to think. But, if it helps, I don't think Leto was a child of rape, and Sulin has experienced real love, both in a sexual-romantic relationship and in the relationships she has with her children. **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	3. Cassandra: Born on the Road

**Characters: **Anthony Pentaghast, Tigana Pentaghast, OFC Marte, OMC Benin, Matthias Pentaghast, various other Pentaghasts and other Pentaghast servants that are mentioned by name but don't play a role in the chapter.

**Pairings: **Matthias/Tigana Pentaghast

**AU Elements: **None.

* * *

**9:04 Dragon**

**On the Cumberland-Val Chevin Highway**

At first, Anthony thought a bird had flown into the carriage. That was what it sounded like—a loud _thump_ just above his head. Then he heard shouting outside. The carriage jolted and began moving faster. The horse whinnied outside. A whip cracked.

"Oh!" Mother gasped. She stretched her hand across her tummy. She looked surprised at first. Then she winced, and gasped again.

Metal clashed outside. "Bandits?" Marte asked sharply.

"It sounds like it, doesn't it?" Mother said. "I—ooh." Her face twisted. There was another thud outside.

"What's happening?" Anthony demanded. "What's going on?"

"Milady?" Marte said sharply.

"It's fine, Marte," Mother said. "The little one's probably just excited by all the fuss."

The carriage jerked again, and Mother hissed. Suddenly, her skirts seemed damp, and her fine, white hands went to them. "Not now," she said, irritated.

"What's happening, Mother?" Anthony cried again.

Marte lurched across the carriage and rapped on the wall. "Benin! Stop this coach!" she yelled with authority. "It's Lady Tigana's time!"

"We're under attack, woman!" came the muffled shout back. "Lord Matthias gave his orders—"

"And he's got five full grown men out there to help him defend his lady, if you join the fight," Marte yelled back. "Stop the coach and let them defend her and we may be saved. Her chances are worse if we drive on!"

"Mother—"Anthony began.

"It's fine, Anthony," Mother told him. Her face twisted again. "It shouldn't be my time. The babe was not meant to come for weeks yet!" She gripped Marte's hand beside her and said "_Do_ stop, Benin. Please!"

"Milady—"the coachman shouted. Then the coach came to a stop. Three more thuds sounded outside. Anthony swallowed. His eyes stung, his lip trembled, and he began to cry. They were arrows, he realized. Like in the stories, but real. Metal rang outside the coach, and Anthony realized Benin must have drawn steel.

The carriage door opened, just a crack, and Anthony saw the wrinkled, friendly face of their coachman, looking worried. "I'll go assist Lords Matthias, Ehren, and the young masters, then," he said. "None of you leave this carriage for anything, understand? I'm cutting the horses free." His hand poked in then, holding a little knife, and his blue eyes flicked to Anthony. "Master Anthony, take this."

Anthony took the little knife and drew it from its scabbard, holding it like a lifeline. "Don't let anyone else in here until someone you know says it's all right, milord," Benin told him. "Protect your lady mother, Marte, and the little one."

Anthony nodded. "No one will _touch_ them," he promised, trembling. The carriage door shut, and Anthony reached up to bar the door. Behind him, he heard Mother moan. Another thud impacted the carriage, and there was a sharp _crack_ as another arrow hit the glass window of the coach. The window did not shatter, but a crack stretched across it now, and Anthony heard the glass creak.

"Get down!" Marte ordered him, helping Mother down into the floor of the carriage herself. Mother was sweating now, clutching at Marte's hand, crouched over on her knees, holding herself up with one arm as well.

There was no room for him in the floor of the coach, so Anthony just hunched over in his seat, staring down at Mother as she panted and sweated, face twisting every now and then. Sometimes she let out a groan and pressed her belly or back. All the while, metal clashed and men shouted outside. Anthony still heard Father, crying oaths to Andraste, but for how much longer? How many bandits were outside?

"You just _had_ to ride to Val Chevin this week," Marte was muttering. "Weeks out or not, it was still too soon, and you know Emperor Florian hasn't had the funds for patrols since the Empire lost Ferelden. Every lonely highway across Orlais is probably covered in bandits, like fleas upon a dog."

"But . . . Marte, the comtesse's salon is not to be missed," Mother said. "And no one traveling this road has reported any difficulty in the last five months! _Ooooh_ . . . that was a good one."

Mother had bitten her lip bloody, and beads of it ran down her chin. Anthony watched them, scared and fascinated. "Are you going to be all right?" he whispered.

"Fine, darling . . . _ah_," Mother gasped. "Your new brother or sister has decided to put in an early appearance, is all. Not very fashionable, but I suppose it is—is a _certain_ kind of timing."

"What's happening outside?" Anthony asked. "Father and Uncle Ehren—Oscar and Sander and Valter. Benin. Aunt Liesl and Sabine. Katrin. Will _they_ be all right? I could help . . ."

"We need you _here_, young master," Marte told him, wiping Mother's forehead with her apron. "Maybe, Maker be good, they'll be all right, and maybe they won't, but Benin gave you your orders. Are you a soldier that can follow them?"

Anthony blinked back his tears. "Yes," he said, and he watched as Mother panted and groaned and bled in Marte's arms on the floor of the coach, and listened outside as the shouting and the clashing of metal slowed, then stopped, and wondered who was alive, and who was dead. His hand sort of stuck around the knife Benin had given him, he was gripping it so tightly. He hoped that would make the knife easier to use.

There was a scrabbling at the door of the carriage. Anthony screamed and stabbed at the door. His knife stuck in the wood before he remembered he had barred the door.

"Stay back!" he yelled. "I'll kill you! I will! I'll do it!"

"Anthony," came a calm, steady voice from the other side of the door. Anthony burst into tears. It was Father. "Open the door."

"Oh, thank the Maker," Mother whispered. She gripped Marte's hand tighter as more pains took her. Beside her, Marte was saying a thanksgiving prayer of her own.

With shaking, aching fingers, Anthony unbarred the door to the carriage. It fell open with a jerk, and he tumbled out into Father's arms. Father had to dodge the unsheathed knife.

Father wrapped Anthony up in his arms. His clothes were flecked with blood, and he smelled like sweat, but Anthony didn't care. "There now, 'Tonio, you don't want to kill me, do you? There's been quite enough men with knives today, I think."

"Sorry, sorry," Anthony repeated over and over again. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"  
"It's all right, 'Tonio. It has been a terrible morning. How is your mother?"

"I—I don't know," Anthony told him. "She keeps saying she's fine, but she's crying and hurting and sweating and bleeding, and Marte can't make it better, and I don't—"

Father hummed, rubbing his hand over Anthony's back. "Bringing a child into the world is no easy task. She cried and hurt and sweat and bled for you too, 'Tonio." He looked back over his shoulder. "Best we camp until the babe's born, Ehren. Benin will need some time to track down the horses at any rate. Marte—how is she?"

"As well as can be expected, milord, considering," Marte said. "Her pains started sudden and are close together already, but I judge it will be some time yet. We'll need a ready supply of water, and I could do with some elfroot and embrium if any can be found."

"There is a stream just off the road. We'll keep a kettle boiling," Father said. "I'll send Katrin to look for the herbs."

"Is she all right?" Mother called. Her voice was strained. "Is everyone all right?"

"Sander scraped his knuckles in the fighting, and Valter took an arrow to the hip. It isn't particularly serious. Sabine went into hysterics. Everyone has been badly frightened, but no one is dead but the bandits, or in danger of dying either. Just focus on our child, my love. We will make camp and keep a watch over you."

"Comtesse Jocelyn's salon—"

"—will wait," Father said decisively. "Our child, it seems, will not. The comtesse will understand we mean no offense with our tardiness, and I will wager she will save the information we wish for us as well." He looked down at Anthony. "Now, 'Tonio, we should leave your mother and Marte to get on with business. You can help the rest of us make camp." He set Anthony down on the road and gravely closed the carriage door again, muffling Mother's groans. Anthony was both grateful about this and worried. "Will you give me your knife?" Father asked Anthony.

Anthony looked at the knife still held tightly in his hand. He tried to make his fingers release it and frowned. "I . . . I don't think I can," he said. "My hand won't let go." He laughed, and then began crying again.

Father knelt in front of him and took Anthony's hand in his. "Here," he said. "Relax. The bandits are dead. See? Your Uncle Ehren, Aunt Liesl, and cousin Oscar are piling up the bodies to burn. There will be no others within twenty miles of this place. Bandit groups do not play nice with one another. We are safe. Your mother is strong and healthy, and Marte will take good care of her and your small brother or sister." Father spoke in a calm, even voice, and with every word, Anthony's breath came a little easier. Meanwhile, Father rubbed Anthony's hand and fingers with his own until Anthony's hand relaxed and Benin's knife fell free.

"Good," Father said. "You were very brave, Anthony, to defend your mother, nurse, and baby brother or sister so well. I am certain that, had I been a bandit, I would have trembled and fled before you."

"They would have chopped the carriage up with a sword, and Mother and Marte and me would all be dead." Anthony said flatly.

"Mother, Marte, and _I_, 'Tonio."

"And _I_,then," Anthony said, impatient but oddly comforted by Father correcting his grammar.

Father shook his head. He took the sheath which Anthony offered him and sheathed Benin's little knife. "Have this back," he said. "A man should have a weapon. It is a dangerous world. We will see about getting you your own when we return to Cumberland. Just never forget: it is a tool and not a toy. You hold the lives of others in your hand—those you would protect and those of your enemies."

Anthony nodded, and his gaze strayed over to a clearing off the side of the road, where Aunt Liesl was helping Uncle Ehren add another bloody body to a pile. He had never seen dead men before. There had to be at least eight of them there. "I understand."

Father smiled. "You will be a warrior one day, 'Tonio, no? Another fine dragon hunter in the Pentaghast clan. The finest we have known." He ruffled Anthony's hair and stood. "Come. Help me gather some firewood for the camp." He looked across the grouping of their family retinue that had set out for Comtesse Jocelyn's salon in Val Chevin. "Katrin," he called to Aunt Liesl and Sabine's maid, "Can you search the wood for healing herbs for Lady Tigana? Sabine, can you fill the kettle with water from the stream?"

* * *

Anthony woke with a start, and his hand immediately went to Benin's knife. _His_ knife now, as Benin had told Father that he would be honored to give it to Anthony outright, and not just for the duration of the journey.

In a moment, he remembered where he was. The horrible smell from the smoldering pyre Uncle Ehren, Aunt Liesl, and Cousin Oscar had built told him, and so did the makeshift shelters Cousin Sander had made all around him. They were in the woods, on the road to Val Chevin, and Mother was giving birth to his baby brother or sister.

That was what had woken him, Anthony realized. A high, insistent cry from the coach. The baby! Anthony sat up immediately. It was here!

He looked toward the carriage and saw a shadowed figure coming from it, backlit against the campfire. It knelt beside his bedroll, and Anthony recognized Father.

"Already awake? We should put you in the watch rotation," he teased. "Would you like to come and see your baby sister?"

"Sister?" The word was like a fire inside Anthony's chest—a warm, cozy one that didn't smell like the one for the bandits. He had a baby sister. He was a big brother.

"Loud, and strong enough, Marte says, for all she came so early. Your mother tells me her name is Cassandra."

"Cassandra," Anthony repeated. The name sounded just like music.

He let Father help him to his feet and walked with him across the camp to the carriage. The woods that had seemed so scary and threatening this morning seemed warm and welcoming now. The stars overhead sparkled and shimmered, and there was a torch burning outside the cracked carriage window.

"She's very small," Father warned. "She will be unable to play with you much yet for quite some time."

Anthony looked up at his father scornfully. "That's all _you_ know," he said. "She wanted to fight _bandits_ today. _That's_ why she came early."

Father looked back at him, paused, and then laughed, loud and joyful. "Well said, son! I daresay you're right." He rapped on the carriage door. "Tigana, my love, I've Anthony with me. Can he come in?"

"Of course, but be careful," Mother said. "I've just now got her quiet."

Father opened the door to the coach and handed Anthony up. The light of the torch glowed orange on the carriage's interior. Marte was gone—probably washing up or preparing to try to rest herself. In fact, looking back, Anthony saw her emerging from the woods and heading back toward the campfire. Mother was alone on the carriage seat, which had been covered with one of the sheets they had kept in the packs on top. She looked tired and dirty, though Marte must have taken her dress away and put her in a clean shift since the morning. Her hair had fallen down, but she also looked happier and sweeter than Anthony had ever seen her, and in her arms, she held a bundle of _something_.

Anthony sat on the opposite seat of the carriage. "Is that my baby?" he asked, suddenly shy. He tried to remember if he had ever seen one so small.

Mother chuckled. "_Your_ baby, is it, Anthony? My body feels it differently tonight."

Anthony looked up at Mother, frustrated. "You _know_ what I mean."

"Indeed. Would you like to hold your sister?"

Anthony nodded.

"Sit still," Mother told him. She moved over to his seat and, gently, placed the bundle of blankets in Anthony's lap. "Hold her here, and here," she said, moving his hands to support Cassandra accordingly.

Anthony looked down at the small, red face, the squinty eyes and blobby nose and little pink lips and fell promptly in love. "Hi, Cassandra," he whispered. "I'm Anthony. I'm your brother. I protected you today. I always will." He remembered how she had wanted to be born the second the bandits showed up, and smiled. "I don't think you'll need it long, though. We're going to have so much fun together."

Mother smiled and put her arm around both of them, and Anthony talked softly to his baby sister until Father came and told him he had to go back to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Say it with me: "Awww!" I think I fell in love with Matthias Pentaghast while writing this chapter. I meant him to be a much more distant character, but as poor Anthony came down from the terror of the bandit attack and watching his mother go into labor, the kind of dad anyone would love to have just showed up to comfort his little boy. **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	4. Cullen: The Shepherd's Second Son

**Characters: **Branson Rutherford, Mia Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford, OFC Theodora Rutherford, OFC Ruthan, OMC Titus Rutherford, OMC Horace, OMC Sedge, Own-Sheepdog Egan

**Pairings: **OMC Titus/OFC Theodora Rutherford

**AU Elements**: Cullen is born in 9:05 Dragon instead of 9:11 Dragon. He is the third child and second son instead of the second child and first son, making his brother Branson his elder as well as Mia.

* * *

**9:05 Dragon**

**Honnleath, Arling of Redcliffe, Ferelden**

"Why isn't he big like me?" Branson asked his sister Mia, as disappointed as a three-year-old boy can be. "I thought a brother would be big like Morris's brother."

"He's got to be a baby first, silly," four-year-old Mia said knowledgeably. "Get bigger just like you did. You were little to start out with too."

"Was not!"

"Were too! So was I. Everyone starts out little."

Branson scowled down into the cradle where his new brother was sleeping, dressed in one of his old homespun nightgowns. "I wanted to play with him," he pouted.

"We can," Mia told him. "We can tickle him, and play with the rattle and the rings, and hide like this—"She put her hands over her face then opened them wide to demonstrate. "We just can't run and play ball with him yet."

"We have to play _baby_ games," Branson said contemptuously.

"Because he's a _baby_," Mia retorted. "It isn't Cullen's fault."

"Another fine son, 'Dora," the midwife, Ruthan, told Theodora Rutherford with satisfaction as the mother watched her children over by the cradle with tired gladness. "As pretty as you please, and big and strong like his dad like as not. You did well."

"My thanks, Ruthan. The Maker's been good to us," Theodora sighed.

"You'll want to rest. Don't worry. I'll stay with you and the young ones until morning," Ruthan promised.

By the table in the little cottage, two of the village men were pounding Titus on the back. "We should celebrate, Tite! Another son!"

"Another daughter would have pleased me just as well, Sedge," Titus smiled, "but it's a fine thing, to be sure."

Horace laughed. "With any luck at all, you'll have another sweet daughter one day too! Ah, children make a man's life! Come, drink with us!"

Titus looked toward the bed. "You don't mind, do you, Dora? I'll be back before nightfall."

Theodora smiled wearily up at her husband. "Oh, go on with you now," she told him. "Might as well be underfoot there as underfoot here. Ruthan and I have things well in hand. I suppose you can help with his nappies just as well tonight and tomorrow as now."

Titus crossed the room, bent low, and kissed his wife's weathered forehead. Horace and Sedge grinned at him, waiting by the door. The three men left together to go to the tavern, and thus, inform the rest of Honnleath of the newest addition.

"He's waking up!" Mia said, excited by every doing of the new baby. "He's waking up, Mama!"

"I'm bored," Branson announced. "Can we play, Mia?"

"I want to stay here," Mia told her brother, and turned back to her mother. "He's waking up!" she repeated.

Branson's lip protruded. He crossed his arms across his chest, but Ruthan was there by the cradle in an instant. In one plump arm she scooped up Cullen, beginning to fuss, and she stretched out her other hand to take Branson's. "Now, now, Master Branson, how would it be if you and I took a walk down to the brook? I'm given to understand there might be frogs there at this time of evening."

Branson brightened. He allowed Ruthan to lead him by the hand, past the bed, where she placed Cullen in his mother's arms, and out the door. As the two left, they began chatting amiably about frogs and fireflies and the other companions of boyhood. Ruthan was practiced in the ways of young children.

"Is he hungry, Mama?" Mia asked her mother, climbing onto the big bed to nestle into her mother's side.

"That he is, Mia," Theodora told her daughter, dropping her head to kiss the child's fair hair and baring her breast for Cullen. "Give him his supper, and he'll drop right off back to sleep."

"I wish he wouldn't," Mia said. "Why can't he stay awake with us?"

"And wouldn't you be tired too, if you'd been through what he has today?" Theodora asked. "He needs his sleep to grow, Mia-girl, just like you."

Mia rolled her eyes in a very grown up way. "It's not bedtime yet. We haven't had our supper either, and it's bath day too."

Theodora appeared to think a moment. "We can have some supper when Ruthan gets back with your brother," she said. "But do you think it would be alright if, just this once, we had bath day tomorrow?"

Mia's eyes lit up with delight. "No bath!" she cried. Swiftly, she closed her mouth and adopted a severe expression. "Fine," she allowed. "_Just_ this once."

Theodora smiled, and Mia giggled. She lapsed into silence then, gazing at the baby as he fed at their mother's breast. And Egan, the sheepdog by the fire, too old to go out with the flocks anymore, sneezed once, got to his feet, and jumped up on the big bed with them. He turned around twice and lay at Theodora's feet with a sigh of content, and Mia reached down to scratch his floppy ears.

* * *

**A/N**: **In these early chapters, I view Cullen's chapters as something of an antidote and palate-cleanser to Leto and a couple of other characters. Some happy fluff as a break from the drama. I hope most of you who are reading grew up in homes like Cullen's. **

**Reviews aren't necessary but are always (much) appreciated.**

**LMS**


	5. Varric: A Child of Kirkwall

**Characters: **Varric Tethras, OMC Gavin Morgenstern, OMC Cheslan Feske, OFC Silva Donner, Bartrand Tethras

**Pairings: **None

**AU Elements**: Andvar Tethras did not die when Varric was two years old. Ilsa Tethras is not an alcoholic.

* * *

**9:06 Dragon**

**Kirkwall**

"Race you to the statue and back," Gavin challenged Varric and Cheslan.

Varric scoffed. "Only if we play marbles after." The humans were faster than he was, but no kid in the neighborhood could beat him at marbles, and usually not at cards either.

Both boys hesitated.

Varric grinned in an encouraging sort of way. "I'm sure you'll beat me this time. We won't play for keeps."

"For fair?" Gavin asked, thinking this plan over.

Varric shrugged. "Or we could make it a race six times up and down the docks," he offered. He'd started wondering if he'd be as slow if the races took longer. Cheslan and Gavin were fast enough, but he always caught up in the end, and he wasn't tired like they were either.

"Six times?" Chez asked, doubtful. "On the docks?" It was farther than they usually went from home.

Varric lifted his eyebrows at them. "You aren't scared, are you?"

"No way. Dad takes me to the docks every week to help out a little, until I'm older. Then I'll go every day," Gavin declared. "I'm in."

"If you are, then I am," Chez agreed. Varric grinned, and led the others off through the cobbled streets toward the docks.

Mother didn't like the docks much—she said the chains in the harbor, all the old Tevinter statues, and the Gallows where they kept the city mages were all too depressing—but Varric didn't mind them. There was always something going on at the docks. Someone meeting. Stuff coming in from Orlais or Rivain or Antiva—sometimes even Tevinter or the Anderfels. Varric was sure one time he'd seen a pirate. There was always a nice breeze blowing, and the fish smelled, but when you brought some home for dinner from the markets on the docks, it always tasted better than if you'd brought it from anywhere else in the city.

Still, he wasn't about to tell Gavin and Cheslan, but he hadn't ever been to the docks on his own either. He'd only come with Father and Bartrand, usually whenever Father wanted him to meet some _kalna_ business partner from Ferelden. The meetings were always long and boring, and at the end of them, Father always went off to the tavern with whoever it was and sent Varric and Bartrand home alone. But Varric had a head for places as well as faces, and he knew which turns to take.

Soon, the three of them were staring out at the Gallows across the water, which was this gray-blue color with choppy waves today. The wind cut across from the south, blowing the fish smell back over Lowtown. Gavin and Cheslan looked back at Varric, and grins broke out over all their faces at the exact same time. Gavin whooped and broke out into a run, jumping fish buckets, tackle, and small crates off the docks, and Chez dashed after him. They weren't racing yet, Varric knew, just happy. It was fun going someplace without parents or older brothers.

An elf woman selling jewelry in the street screamed at Gavin for almost knocking over her basket. A mover dropped his crate when Chez ran past and started swearing. Varric just smirked, hanging back and watching it all, memorizing some of the mover's words to shock Mother with later. "Are we going to race or goof around some more?" he called after them. "I'm good either way."

"You guys are going to be in _so_ much trouble," a satisfied voice said off to his left. Varric glanced over. It was a girl, a dwarf like him, older than he was but younger than Bartrand. She had round eyes the weird color of the Kirkwall harbor, an off-centered dimple in her left cheek, and dark brown hair cut across her forehead and short at her jaw. He thought he'd seen her before, that maybe she lived on one of the boats down here with her family. "I know you, don't I?" she asked, like she could hear him thinking. "Yeah, you're that kalna kid from the Merchant's Guild, right? Your da meets up with some contacts down here every couple weeks."

She held out a dirty hand, not much bigger than Varric's, with ragged fingernails, callouses on her palms, and a cut just over her first two knuckles, like she'd been messing around with a pocketknife. "Silva Donner," she told him.

Varric took her hand and shook, liking her immediately. "Varric Tethras. Nice to meet you."

Silva sort of arched her eyebrows over her weird eyes, widening them as she did to look impressed. She whistled, and Varric knew she was making fun of him, but in a nice way. "_Tethras_. Fancy name, that. Sounds like an Orzammar noble. Honored, I am." She tried to curtsey but tilted and tripped. She caught herself and stood up, laughing.

Varric tried to copy Silva's arched eyebrows and teasing expression. "Ah, what do the likes of me know about Orzammar and nobles?" he said, mimicking her docks accent as well. "Just Lowtown street trash, me."

Silva laughed again, genuinely delighted this time. "A liar is what you are, Varric Tethras. Your da doesn't know you and your friends are down here, does he?"

"Who's the girl?" Gavin demanded. He and Chez had finally stopped running around and come to stand panting nearby. "Thought we were going to race, Ric!"

Silva introduced herself to Gavin and Cheslan. "You here without your mas and das, too?" she asked when she was done.

Gavin puffed his chest out. "And what do you care if we are? You ain't _my_ mam or sister!"

Silva rolled her eyes. "Thank the Maker for _that_ at least," she said. "I'm glad I never had brothers like _you_ lot."

"You pray to the Maker?" Chez asked, distracted. "But you're a dwarf like Ric."

Varric looked over at Silva's dress, just like the dresses the human girls on the dock wore—but smaller. No clan emblem or guild sigil sewn anywhere on her sleeve or apron. She looked back at him, her face wry and expressive. "Dunno," she said. She sprang up onto a nearby crate, rolled so she was laying on the top of it, and hung her head and torso down from it so she was looking at them upside-down. "He came here with you guys. Maybe Varric's a dwarf like me."

Chez frowned. "That doesn't make any sense," he accused Silva.

Silva tilted her upside-down head. Her short hair was already hanging down in every direction, and the effect was incredibly weird. "Don't it?" she asked airily.

Varric shifted. "Don't worry about it," he advised his friends. "Want to race with us?" he asked Silva.

"Racing humans?" she asked him, as if he were some kind of stupid. "On foot?"

Varric did the eyebrow-arching thing at her again. "Six times up and down the dock."

She sat up, interested. "She couldn't keep up anyway, Ric," Gavin complained.

"So what's the problem, Gav?" Varric demanded. "You never mind me losing, do you?" He liked Silva.

Gavin stared at him, then smiled. "I guess not," he conceded. "Six times up and down the dock," he told Silva. "Think you can do it?"

Silva swung down from the crate again. "From Old Man Stowan's to the seawall and back, then," she said. "Six times. You watch me!"

Accordingly, they walked down the dock to line up by Old Man Stowan's boat by the street down to Lowtown. "You say go, Chez," Varric told his friend. Gavin would start running before he finished shouting, but Chez was always fair.

Chez nodded, his blond eyebrows knit down over his blue eyes in concentration. Varric relaxed, watching the other end of the dock, preparing. "Go!" Chez shouted.

* * *

"You _knew_ you would win!" Gavin panted, bracing himself on his knees, mouth stretched in a smile. Beside him, Chez was collapsed in a pile of grain sacks. "You knew _we _wouldn't be able to keep up! Andraste's ass, you aren't even tired, you little shits!"

Varric glanced sideways at Silva. She had won by two steps—mostly, he thought, because she was older and just a little bit taller. She grinned lazily back at him, like him, barely breathing hard. He looked back at Gav, putting on a shocked expression. "Gav! Language! What would your mother say?"

Gav made a rude gesture with his hand and replied with a phrase he'd probably picked up coming down here all those times with his father. He collapsed beside Chez on the grain sacks.

Varric laughed. "I didn't _know_ I'd win," he explained. "I just _guessed_ if we ran long enough I'd catch up. Look at it this way: if the three of us are ever chased by a bear, it'll definitely get me first."

"We should go find a bear," Chez managed, finally getting his breath back. Silva's laugh rang out from beside Varric, and he looked up at her. "You're fast too, Silva."

"I'll thank you for remembering, Cheslan Feske, seeing as _I won_," she teased him.

"Only 'cause you're bigger than me," Varric complained.

"A dwarf's going to use that excuse?" she mocked him. "Everyone's bigger than you, Varric Tethras. Everyone will _always_ be bigger than you."

"When we're grown up _you_ might not be," Varric shot back.

"So I've got to enjoy it while I can, yes?" Silva said, without missing a beat.

"Varric!"

The harsh, angry voice cut over the fun, and Varric sighed. He turned around to see Bartrand. His hair was all sweaty and his face was all red and angry, but Varric couldn't even enjoy it. That was the trouble with doing things he wasn't supposed to do. Fun while it lasted, but he always got caught sooner or later. "Hi, Bartrand," he said.

"What are you doing out here alone?" Bartrand demanded. "Mother and I have been looking for you everywhere!"

"But, see, I'm _not_ alone," Varric pointed out helpfully. "You've seen Gavin Morgenstern and Cheslan Feske from down the street, and this is Silva Donner. They've been with me this whole time. Well—almost. Silva came a little later, but her mother and father are just over there." He pointed at the boat he thought belonged to Silva's family. "Right, Silva?"

Silva nodded. "That's right. Ma's napping this morning, and Da went to market, but my own brother should be on the deck right over there cleaning out the nets for tonight. We can't see him from here, but he can see us. Should I go get him?"

Varric had no idea whether or not this was true, but Silva sounded so honest when she said it that he was very impressed, and Gavin and Chez smiled at her. But Bartrand stiffened. "It doesn't matter if your brother's here or not, girl. Varric knows he's not supposed to be here."

"Does he, though?" Varric asked. "I can't remember _that_ rule." He pretended to count on his fingers. "'Don't talk to strange grown-ups, don't drink out of Father's mug or barrels, don't sass your mother, don't meddle with the dock workers . . .' Was that it? Was I meddling, Silva? Chez? Gav?"

"Varric," Chez said in a low voice, sounding both horrified and impressed.

Bartrand slapped Varric across the face. Silva gasped, and Varric shut his mouth, folded his arms, and glared up at his brother. His cheeks were hot, less from the slap than from embarrassment. Bartrand had hit him harder than that, but never in front of anyone outside the house.

"If you come home right now, I won't tell Father about this," Bartrand told him.

Varric nodded curtly. "Sorry," he muttered to Chez, Gavin, and Silva.

"Don't worry about it," Silva said quickly. "I should help Arlo with the nets anyway."

"We need to go home too," Chez said. "See you tomorrow, Ric?"

"Varric won't be playing with you again," Bartrand informed the others without taking his eyes off of Varric. "It seems I should have been watching him closer."

He grabbed Varric's arm and started walking away. Varric turned his head to look back over his shoulder at the others, watching him, pale and wide-eyed by Old Man Stowan's boat. He made a face at them and made Gavin's rude gesture behind his back toward Bartrand, and a faint smile lit up Gavin's face. Varric turned his head back around and let Bartrand walk him away.

* * *

Bartrand was still lecturing him by the time they had made it all the way back home. "If Father had seen you, your little butt would still be hurting next week. You know that, right? Why can't you play with Teobald or Sifa? They're around your age."

"Teobald's an ass—"

"Language!"

"He is!" Varric insisted. "And all Sifa wants to do is braid her dolly's hair. I like Gav and Chez—"

"They're _humans_, Varric. They don't know the Stone. They don't know our ways."

"Neither do we," Varric argued. "Father's told us the ancestors wouldn't even let _us_ in the gates of Orzammar, so who needs them? Gav and Chez are _fun_—"

"They're vermin and sons of vermin," Bartrand said, voice high and defensive. "Father says so. You want to grow up like them? They'll be shop assistants or street sweeps or smiths that couldn't forge Orzammar's garbage. Or you want to be like your little fisher-girl friend? She's the worst of them all. At least humans _know_ what they are. That girl and everyone like her, they've forgotten. You're better than that, Varric. _We_ are." Inside their house now, Bartrand finally released Varric's arm. It ached where he'd been holding it all this time. Bartrand looked down at Varric as he rubbed the place he'd been held. "Or we should be. _Stay here_." He held Varric with his eyes for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked off to the table, where Father had set him up with a book and a ledger for the lesson of the day.

Varric watched him go, then made another face at his back and stomped off to his room.

He pulled some paper and a charcoal stick out of his night table drawer.

_I'll see yu tomorow_, he printed carefully in the center of the paper. _Sorry my bruther is such a fathead. Can I go with yu and yor dad next tim yu go to the doks? We culd du somthing with Silva. She's nis. –Varric T. _Beneath the writing, he drew the Tethras crest, and—as best he could—a picture of himself and two human boys next to a dwarf girl by the water. He tied the message with some string around one of the rocks he collected by the docks each time he went for this purpose, and dropped the message, weighted by the rock, outside his bedroom window. Then Varric sighed, pulled the book of adventure stories about the Paragons of Orzammar his mother had given him for his birthday from his drawer instead, and started trying to work out the third chapter.

Hours later—lost in a calculation over exactly what they burned in Orzammar to see through their old caverns, when candles were so expensive even up here where they had bees, and there weren't trees for torches underground either—Varric heard a fluttering at his window. He sat up on his bed and looked down. A paper bird was fluttering to the ground. Gavin had missed his throw. He caught Varric's eye, winked, and threw again. This time, Varric reached out to catch the paper bird. Gav grinned, his lips revealing his two missing teeth, and then he darted back down the ally toward his own house.

Varric unfolded the same piece of paper he had used. The front was smeared from reading and folding, but on back, there was Gavin's message, in the cheap pencil Gavin's father used to mark his takings every day in a ledger. There were no words of reply here. No one in Gav's family could read at all, and Chez, who _was_ letting Varric teach _him_, had only been able to write his own name, in big, shaky letters to indicate he'd seen the message too. But the rude hand gesture depicted fairly accurately on the page, next to a smiling face and a rough drawing of a figure hanging upside-down off the side of a box, wild lines going in every direction meant to represent hair, didn't need much of a translation.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so Varric's father isn't dead and his mother isn't an alcoholic. His home still isn't happy, as you can probably tell. I figure Andvar's crime and subsequent exile just about poisoned his family. Varric does grow up in a home of intermittent—though not severe—child abuse. What's most important for him is the tension between the **_**kalna**_** (or dwarven traditionalist) ideals of his parents and brother and Varric's own ascendant (or dwarven adaptive) tendencies, developed by growing up in Kirkwall. **

** If Varric Tethras seems a little advanced for five years old, well, he **_**is**_**. His friends may be a bit older; ascendant dwarf fisher-girl Silva definitely is at least eight. I tried to simplify Varric's vocabulary a little and show that he is still learning how to read and write, but Varric always strikes me as a probable genius, and that's going to come across in his chapters. I also tried to convey his curiosity and knack for persuasion. **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMS**


	6. Kaycee: A Magical Heritage

**Characters**: OFC Tandy Cartwright, Malcolm Hawke, Leandra Hawke, F!Hawke (Kaycee)

**Pairings: **Malcolm/Leandra Hawke

**AU Elements**: None

* * *

**9:07 Dragon**

**Cannock's Coast, the Teyrnir of Highever, Ferelden**

Tandy Cartwright, the innkeeper at the Gull's Roost, the cleanest establishment with the palest ale in Cannock's Coast, looked up when she heard a foot on the stairs. The second step from the bottom creaked. Larson had offered to fix it, but Willis liked it. Three times he'd caught thieves in the inn because of that stair, and Tandy wasn't denying sometimes it was nice to hear folk coming and going, with the staircase behind the wall and all.

It was nice to be able to hear the staircase at all over all the screaming. Tandy had had seven complaints in the hours the Hawke woman had been here. The ale hall had just about cleared out, and two couples had decided to take a room at the Lusty Mermaid instead. Now, old Davis Kiltyre would "service charge" 'em out of every last silver and bit, with rats in the kitchen and bedbugs in the sheets besides, and serve 'em right, and Tandy hadn't been about to turn the poor woman away, but losing over half a day's custom over her birthing was still a hard thing.

So Tandy smiled to see the woman's husband, Malcolm, turn the corner. His tired eyes over a proud, glad grin he just couldn't hold in told the whole story, and her patrons had dealt with a number of crying bairns over the years.

"You're a father, then, are you?" she said softly. His eyes all but glowed.

"I am," he said. He smiled wider, hardly able to help it. His hand came up, without his leave, it seemed, and tangled in his thick, black hair. "We've a little girl."

"And Mistress Hawke is well?"

"She's fine," he told her. "Resting now."

"Ah, the first one is always special," Tandy said. Her own babes were well grown and gone now, and her eldest daughter newly married and expecting her own child, but she remembered those precious days, when her Clem was still alive. "Maker's blessings upon you both."

"My thanks, Mistress Cartwright," Malcolm Hawke said, giving her an almost courtly bow. "Not every innkeeper would have allowed Leandra and me to stay. I know we must have caused you some trouble." In a single, smooth motion, he produced a small, leather bag from somewhere about his person and slid it over the counter to her. "For your pains."

Tandy picked up the bag and blinked at the heft of it. A sudden stab of guilt went through her for her earlier uncharitable thoughts. She'd seen Mistress Hawke's soft hands yesterday when the two of them had come, heard the fancy way she talked, like she'd used to be a lady, but the couple had obviously fallen on hard times since, or why did they dress in simple leathers and undyed market-spun like they did, and why hadn't Mistress Hawke given birth in her own little house? Tandy wasn't about to refuse Master Hawke's gift; she'd paid for the midwife up there out of her own purse so no one died under her roof, but the Hawkes couldn't have had a lot to give her.

"No pains at all, serah," Tandy lied. "Will you and Mistress Hawke be needing anything further tonight?"

"I wouldn't say no to a dram of your excellent ale," Malcolm answered with a more personal smile. "And if you could spare some tea leaves, Leandra would take kindly to a cup when she wakes. We've our own kettle."

One could hardly help smiling back at Malcolm Hawke, Tandy reflected. He was a handsome one. That dimple just south of his right cheek was enchanting. "I'll bring the tea and the ale right up," Tandy promised. "You'll be wanting to get back to your wife and your little girl. If she looks anything like either of you, I'll bet she's as bonny as can be."

Serah Hawke's green eyes danced, and that ridiculous dimple deepened. Ah, Tandy did like a fine-looking young man. "I feel she likely looks much like other babes, but I confess she _seems_ the most beautiful I've ever seen. And she's mine."

With another bow, he turned around and headed back up the stairs, his leather-shod feet making almost no noise on the wooden floor of the Roost. This time, Tandy didn't hear the creak of the second stair from the bottom. He'd skipped it.

Tandy smiled to herself and headed to the kitchen to fetch his ale and Mistress Leandra's tea.

* * *

Malcolm shut the door behind the Roost's innkeeper—a kindly and pious woman, she. If she was a little overzealous in her housekeeping, her inn had been all the safer for Leandra because of it. And it was good to be home. He had learned much in his years in the Free Marches, but through it all felt he'd left a part of him behind in his homeland.

Returned now, with the woman so brave, so generous she had left nobility and family behind for his sake, with their first child sleeping in her arms, his heart was as full as ever he could remember it. He placed his glass of ale on the mantel, the tea leaves beside it to await the boiled water, and sat beside his wife on the bed.

Greta, the midwife, had departed an hour ago. Leandra was as well as she had seen a first-time mother being after birthing. She'd call in the morning, she'd promised, to ensure that no complications had arisen. In the meantime, it was just the three of them. Malcolm, Leandra, and their daughter—Kaycee.

"I have no words for this, Leandra," Malcolm said quietly, gazing down at Kaycee's tiny fingers curling around her blanket, her black lashes buttoned shut in sleep over her bump of a nose.

"No clever words for me?" Leandra murmured, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. "Is that silver tongue dumb at last?"

Malcolm chuckled. "Kaycee speaks all the speeches I could ever give in her own self, love." He gazed at his daughter, sure he could look at her forever, and his voice grew soft. "Aye, and half a dozen songs besides."

Leandra leaned over to kiss him. "So. Not _entirely_ speechless." She looked down at their child. "Malcolm, she looks like you."

In truth, she did, as much as a baby could be said to resemble any adult yet. Kaycee's feathery down of black hair, the golden-pale cast of her skin, and something about the jaw all testified this was his daughter. "She has your hands," Malcolm pointed out. "And I hope her face takes on something of yours as she grows, or, to speak truth, she will be a strange-looking woman."

He hoped that in one other respect she was her mother's daughter too, though as yet there was no way to be certain. At this thought, Malcolm's smile fell away slightly. Leandra didn't notice. She swatted at him with her free hand. "She's beautiful," she told him. "She'll be beautiful. Do you want to hold her?"

Malcolm hesitated. He did. Every part of him longed to hold this little cipher they had brought into the world, but—"I don't wish to hurt her," he admitted.

Leandra laughed at him. "She isn't made of glass, Malcolm, and she's stronger than she looks. Here." With no further warning than that, she deposited the infant in his arms, moving his hands to the proper positions.

Malcolm held his breath at first, but Kaycee did not wake. She only lifted her tiny fist to her mouth and sighed.

Leandra laughed again. "Relax, darling. You'll hurt yourself seized up like that. She's fine. You won't hurt her." She leaned up against his shoulder and whispered to their sleeping child, "This is your father, Kaycee. He's a wonderful man. I love him very much, and so will you."

Malcolm could not stop staring at the child. "Leandra," he said, so quietly that his wife bent her head even closer to hear him. "What if she's like me?"

It had been tempting the fates to have a child at all, he knew. A thousand years of scholarship and the entire nation of Tevinter proved magic ran strongly in bloodlines, if it was not only inherited through blood. Leandra and her brother had both been spared the curse, but she had an uncle and two more cousins locked away in Circles across Thedas. The Amells were well-known for the magic in their line, and that Leandra had given herself to him? But love—and what followed—did not always proceed according to what was safe or sensible, and when Leandra had learned she was with child, she had refused the herbs that might have kept it from coming. In his selfishness, Malcolm had been glad, but now he wondered if bringing this child into the world had been an unpardonable sin. "If you had wed someone else—" he began.

"I did not," Leandra said, with steel beneath her voice.

"You could have remained in Kirkwall, an honored lady of the city," Malcolm persisted. "Your daughter could be a lady, not another fugitive in an uncharted inn in a backwater fishing village, thrust into this life of shadow and doubt, whether she will or nil—"

Leandra cut him off. "I know it! Do you think I don't know it? I did this to her as much as you!"

Kaycee shifted in Malcolm's arms. She whimpered, and Leandra rushed to soothe her, patting her arms and stroking her hair until she slept soundly once again.

Malcolm didn't speak until Kaycee was still. "If she is like you, she could hate us. You chose me, Leandra, but we have taken her choice away. Still, she could escape us one day. But if she is like me . . ." he trailed off, gazing down at Kaycee, as if he could read her magic at a glance or follow her into the Fade and see if she could meet him there yet.

"I will pray she is not every day and night until we know for certain," Leandra said fiercely. "You know I don't fear or hate your magic, but I don't want that hardship for our daughter." She took a deep breath. "But Malcolm, if she is like you—I will not give her up. I _cannot_." Her expression was fierce. "_You_ must protect her. _You_ must teach her. Train her to be wise and good like you, how to avoid the Templars so she can be free as you are."

Malcolm shook his head. "I am not free, Leandra. No mage truly is. This magic, this vision of what lies beyond the Veil is as much burden as it is a power, or more. But—if she is like me, you know I won't refuse you."

Malcolm felt the weight of responsibility for the little life sleeping in his arms descend upon his shoulders. In some respects, he supposed, it was the same for all fathers. Children throve or fell short, by and large, through the training or neglect their parents provided them. It was a hard thing, but his Kaycee could live or die through it. If she proved a mage in four years, or seven, she would have none of the control he had built over years of experience. It would fall to him to teach her to master herself and any demons that sought to trifle with her, and to conceal herself from those who believed a mage could not do so independently.

"We will teach her to serve men whether she possesses magic or not," Malcolm said. "I think that is where the Chantry goes wrong. As if only mages can help others and no one else is capable of any real work!"

Leandra smiled at his weak jest. "Not to your standards anyway," she said. She slipped down against his side. She was weary, and she needed rest. Malcolm laid Kaycee beside her on the bed, in the curve of her body, and she sighed with contentment.

Tonight, he supposed, it did not matter whether or not their daughter had magic. Just that she existed. Just that a small miracle had occurred here in this uncharted inn in a backwater fishing village. All he could do tonight was sleep beside his family. All he could do in the future was to guard his daughter, watch her.

If one day they saw she'd been spared, they would train her in everything she would need so that someday she could leave them and learn true freedom. If they saw she had not been spared—he would teach her control. Whatever came to pass, his daughter would never need Templars to keep her from evil or a Circle to protect her from demons. She would not grow to fear and hate him or to fear and hate herself. She would learn self-governance, over her own actions at the very least, and, if necessary, over her power. He was no noble. No landowner or businessman nor ever could be, in any civilized nation. But still, he could give his daughter that much.

Malcolm lay down beside Kaycee and Leandra, and as he closed his eyes, Leandra touched his wrist. "I don't regret it, you know," she said, half-asleep. "I could never regret you."

* * *

**A/N: One of the PCs makes her entrance! Note that I'm not going to be really worrying about gender equality with my PCs; males are overrepresented in leadership so many places in the real world. The RPG characters I play represent women. This series eventually does end in a 40-60 split, with four male characters to six females. Each of the men has his own story that is independent of his role as romantic love interest in any one game of the series, because the brilliant writers of Dragon Age made round, dynamic characters that work that way. So, yes, the men in this series are NPCs, and almost all the women are PCs. That doesn't actually end up saying much, as I would argue two of the men depicted here have as much or more of a role shaping the Dragon Age as any of the women—whether they end up liking it or not. So don't confuse being a player character with being an actual player in this narrative. **

** At any rate, zooming in on this early part of Malcolm and Leandra's relationship really gives me more appreciation for Leandra. It's hard to like her sometimes in **_**DA2**_**. She clearly plays favorites and can be cruel when she's grieving. It's easy to forget how much she gave up and all the risks she took for love. She was a very brave and generous woman who showed more actual, active love than most people would ever dream of. **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	7. Leto: To Be a Slave

**A/N: Normally, I write these after the fact, but before anyone reads this—a warning. This particular one-shot involves the physical abuse of one child and the emotional abuse of another, both as part of the systematic punishment of slaves. Written in acknowledgment of the terrible crimes against humanity that have been committed against slaves in the past and continue to be so in the dark, illegal corners of the world today, and in acknowledgment of those who have suffered similar abuses by the people who should love and care for them instead.**

* * *

**Characters: **Leto (Fenris), OFC Xenia Bellisti, Varania, OFC Mistress Bellisti, OMC Dain, OFC Isla, OMC Cookie, OFC Sulin, various other OCs mentioned but not participating in the plot.

**Pairings: **None

**AU Elements: **This may not be actually AU, as it's established Danarius is a liar, but young Leto lives in Ventus, across the channel from Seheron and not actually on it.

* * *

**9:07 Dragon**

**Ventus, The Tevinter Imperium**

"What is your name, boy?" Leto turned around to see that the little mistress was talking to him. He stared. She was taller than he was. Fatter too, though not exactly fat, and of course her ears were round. Mother had made her dress, all silks and brocades and ribbons. It looked even prettier on the girl than it had on Mother's table, making her dark curls shine like polished wood and her skin almost glow. No one in the slaves' quarters, in the house or in the fields, had clothes anything like as nice as the things Mother made for the family. The little mistress seemed blessed by the Maker in them.

"I asked you a question, boy," the girl told him, in a tone just like Mistress's, for all she couldn't be much older than Leto was. "What is your name?"

Leto swallowed and found his voice. "Leto, if it please you, ma'am."

"You're handsomer than the other slaves," the girl said. "You're Sulin's son, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. Do you need Mother?"

The girl's eyes narrowed. "I am speaking to you, Leto, not your mother. I don't need her right now." She regarded him for a moment and ate another bite of the cake she had come to the kitchens for. Leto's hands slipped on the spit, and he gripped it tighter before his mittens fell and he burned himself again. If Cookie had to salve his hands and take time away from preparing supper, he'd box his ears into the bargain, and maybe send him back outside away from Mother and Varania, saying he was useless for any house work yet. Leto didn't want that.

"Do you play, boy?" the girl asked. "Leto," she corrected herself before he could say anything. Then she waited. Some crumbles had fallen onto her fine dress.

Leto tried to remember her name. He was never permitted anywhere near the family usually. He knew mistress's mother, Mistress Aster, because until this year, she had given Varania magic lessons, and Verry _hated_ her short temper, nasty attitude, and the birch stick she kept for when Verry did things wrong. It was only this year that Verry had been sent to Dottore, the healer kept by one of Master's neighbors instead.

Varania spoke up from where she stood plucking a chicken for tonight's dinner. "Do you really want him, Miss Xenia? Don't you have better friends to play with than the seamstress's son?"

Xenia tossed her head, and her curls shook inside her hair ribbons. "Alcaeus is in the country until next week, and Evadne is boring, and besides, I do not wish to play with them today. I wish to play with Leto." She turned her head back toward Leto. "Do you play?" she asked again.

"Miss Xenia, we've work to do," Varania tried again.

"Cressid can help, can't she?" Leto asked suddenly. He looked up at Verry. "Wouldn't she like a day off from following after the field workers? If Mistress Xenia wants me, I can go."

"Of course you can," Xenia said. "Anyway, Cook can do without you for a day if _I_ order it so. Send for the field worker girl," she ordered Verry. "I'm taking Leto with me."

Verania hesitated, then sighed and dipped a curtsey. "Very good, miss. I'll run to the fields straight out. Be good, Leto." She put down the chicken, pumped water over her hands at the sink for just a moment to clean them, and then left the kitchen.

Xenia watched her go. "Your sister?" she asked.

Leto nodded.

"You have the same eyes," the girl observed, "But she doesn't look much else like you, and a lot of elves have green eyes. I guess you had different fathers, didn't you?"

"I don't know, miss," Leto admitted. "Mother never told me."

"Elves don't get married like normal people," Xenia informed him. "Their fathers can be anyone at all, Grandmama says. Come on. We can trundle my hoop in the garden."

Leto frowned, not entirely sure what she meant, but when Cressid got here, she'd see the roast didn't burn, and he wouldn't have to collect firewood or scrub any floors or sort any of Mother's sewing things today. He followed Xenia out of the kitchen and into the garden.

* * *

Xenia let him trundle her hoop with her—hit a wooden hoop with a stick to roll it down the garden path. She showed him three or four tricks with it, and after a while, they discovered that he could leap through it as it rolled to make things more interesting. When Xenia tired of this game, she wanted to play marbles. This, Leto discovered, was very like the games of stones he played with the field hand boys and Talia, the enforcer's daughter, on summer nights after the final bell rang, though Xenia's marbles were smoother, shinier, and more colorful than any of the stones he'd used before—and easier to shoot.

Soon Leto was knocking all the marbles out of the ring. He was laughing, having more fun than he could ever remember doing, but Xenia was turning red over the collar of her pretty dress. Her lips pressed together, and her eyes got thin and mean-looking. "I'm bored of this," she announced. "Do _you_ know any games, boy?"

Leto looked at her. He thought she was waiting for him to say no, so she could say elves didn't know any games. Or slaves didn't. She talked like that, he'd found. Mostly, he thought she was probably right. She looked like a princess. She had a governess and was even learning to read. But this time, he did know something they could do. And he thought the only reason she wanted to do something else anyway was because he'd had a better run with the marbles than she had in the last few turns.

Still, she was a girl, and the master's daughter besides. They should probably do what she wanted. Maybe they could play more marbles another time if Xenia decided she'd liked playing with him today. So Leto shrugged. "We could climb trees."

"You can do that?" Xenia demanded, interested, looking up at the branches that stretched out over the courtyard.

"Yes." Leto pointed. "Verry showed me earlier this year, and I've climbed with Cressid, Evanio, and Corbin sometimes out in the fields."

"Slaves," Xenia said dismissively, losing interest.

Leto tilted his head at her. "The garden looks really different up high," he told her, trying to convince her. "We could spy on everyone that walks down here. No one ever looks up. And I haven't tried it, but I think if we climb the right tree, we might be able to get onto the roof." He pointed at a branch on a tree near the edge of the courtyard that arched up over the tiled roof of the house.

Xenia tossed her curls then, decided. "Show me," she commanded him.

"Come on!" Leto told her. He dashed away toward the tree he had picked out. "Watch me, Miss Xenia," he told her. He showed her how to hug the trunk and shimmy up it until she could reach the first big branch, how to pull herself up onto it, stand, and work her way over to the next until he sat three branches up off the ground, looking down at her. "It's easy," he encouraged her. "You can do it!"

"What if I fall?" Xenia asked, her voice thin.

"It isn't that far down from the first branch," he told her. "And once you get up here, I can help you!"

Xenia's eyes blazed forth. "I don't need any help from _you_," she said. With that, she ran at the trunk, hugged it, and started to shimmy up to the first branch.

"You can do it," Leto told her, chanting it like the prayers they prayed in the Chapel. "You can do it!"

She did, too. She wrapped her arms around the first branch, and with a grunt, swung her body over it until she clung to it like a spider. Leto grinned.

"I did it!" Xenia said, like she almost couldn't believe it. "I did it, Leto!"

"Good! Now stand up. Are you sure you don't want any help?"

Xenia trembled. "You . . . you may assist me, boy," she told him, gazing down at the ground.

"Don't look down yet," he told her. "It looks a lot farther than it is, and it can scare you. Just look at the next branch, all right?" He hooked his legs around the branch he sat on, reached down and grabbed the second branch, and reached his other hand out for Xenia. She took his hand, hugging the tree with her other arm, and stood up on the branch, testing it with her weight. "Good, keep doing that," Leto said. "Now reach over for the same branch I'm holding."

He let go of her hand and moved back to his branch, standing up and starting to look for the path ahead up the tree. Xenia moved to the next branch. She was scared and shaky, but she was doing okay for her first time, he thought. "What now?" she called.

He called back to her, explaining the way she needed to move and the path she had to take, and as he spoke, he climbed, moving up ahead of her, toward the branch that led up to the roof. "Slow down, Leto," Xenia yelled at him. "I can't—" her words trailed off into a scream of terror, and Leto went cold all over. There was a sick _smack_, and, feeling sick, Leto edged around the tree and looked down at the ground as high, keening wails started up below.

She lay there, curls all messy now, full of leaves, face dirty and hands torn. There was a rip in the pretty dress Mother had made for her and her stockings too, and Xenia was bleeding. Not a lot, but enough.

"Oh," Leto said softly.

"It's all your fault, it's all your fault," Xenia said. Leto started climbing down.

"You're all right," he told her. His words were coming too fast. He couldn't stop them. "That was great for your first time. You didn't fall from that high up—"

"Shut up! _Shut up_! My _dress_! My _hair_! You were shaking the tree," she cried.

Leto hooked his legs around the first branch and started to lower himself down. "I was not!" he said, indignant. "We weren't high enough for that yet! I bet your fancy dress just caught!"

Xenia's sobs had turned to shrieks, and she gripped small stones at the base of the tree in her hands and hurled them at him. They didn't even come close to hitting him, but Leto went hot instead of cold and scrambled back up the tree. "Hey!" he cried.

"Xenia?!"

People were rushing into the courtyard now—Isla, Mistress, Dain, Verry. Mistress flew to Xenia's side. "What's happened, precious? Are you hurt? Oh, look at your dress, your poor hands! What's happened?"

"He did it! He did it!" Xenia sobbed, pointing with her bloody hand up where Leto crouched. "The little knife-ear pushed me!"

"I did not!" Leto shouted, angry now. "She fell!"

"Get the little monkey down, Dain," Mistress said. She was angry too, angrier than he had ever seen her, and suddenly Leto was afraid. Dain was a tall man, human, and strong. He was more than big enough to just reach up and grab Leto out of the tree. When his hands closed around Leto's waist, they felt as hard as gauntlets. Leto jerked and kicked, but he wasn't strong enough. He scraped his own hands trying to hold on to the tree. Dain adjusted his grip until Leto was pinioned, both arms held to his sides, suspended in the air. His feet kicked in empty air.

"Let me go!" he yelled. "I didn't push her!"

"Liar!" Xenia screamed at him.

"You're the liar!" he screamed right back.

Mistress slapped his mouth, hard, and Leto was stunned into silence. After a second, the surprise gave way to a hot, throbbing pain. "How dare you contradict your mistress and a freewoman?" Mistress demanded. Her dark eyes were hard as she looked at him. "Take him to the yard," she ordered Dain. "Call the household. Twenty lashes—for his violence, insolence, and presumption."

"Please, Mistress," Verania said, stepping forward. "He's still so small."

"Which is why it is not forty or a hundred," Mistress replied. "Hold your tongue unless you wish to join him. _You_ were to keep him out of trouble, and I still have not heard why my daughter was out in the courtyard alone with your brat of a brother." Her eyes flicked to Isla. "I expect a full explanation."

Isla went white and looked down at her bare feet. Mistress looked back at Dain and Leto. "Take him away," she ordered again.

"But I didn't push her," Leto whispered. "Miss Xenia, tell her!"

Mistress slapped him again. A hot tear tumbled down Leto's cheek, and Xenia looked up at him. She had stopped crying. She smirked, and Dain swung Leto over his shoulder and started in to the house.

* * *

All around the front yard, the field and house slaves were standing. They all looked serious. Some looked angry, some sad, some sorry for him, but none of them said a word as Dain peeled off Leto's tunic and leggings and threw them down in the dirt. Leto was left naked in the yard in front of everyone, and he couldn't even cover himself, because Dain tied his hands with a scratchy rope and strung the other end over a metal frame in the yard, pulling Leto up so he had to stand on the very tips of his toes.

The wind whipped over him, and Leto shivered, but he was hot all over as everyone stared at him. It felt like a small, hard lump had clenched in his stomach. He'd stopped crying, and he was determined he wouldn't cry again, no matter if Dain tore his back up worse than Old Quillon from the field house.

Dain pulled the leather whip from his belt then. He didn't look angry or mean. He didn't look like anything. His face was empty, and Leto decided that was worst of all. When Dain stalked around him, Leto shuddered. The big man made no sound on his feet. He heard the slither of leather on leather—that was all the warning he had. Then there was a _crack_, and a pain as bad as burning his hand on the spit or worse ripped across Leto's back. Leto opened his mouth, but held back his scream, but he heard Verry gasp from the side of the yard, a whispered reassurance from Mother, carrying over the silence.

_Crack! Crack! _

_Two. Three. _Leto counted the strokes as they fell. He gritted his teeth and tried to be brave, but there was nothing to hold on to, no way to hold still against the whip, and everyone saw his every move, knew how much he wanted to get away.

By the time the sixth stroke fell, Leto couldn't stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. He felt the wind when Dain's whip cut on the eleventh stroke, and when the whip crossed the same place on the thirteenth, he hissed and sobbed.

"Stop it! Just stop it!" Verry shouted. "He's bleeding! Please!"

She was crying too. She was so much older than Leto was, but she looked small in Cookie's arms, not even up to his chest yet as she strained against him to get to Leto. Mother held her hand. Her face was white, and her eyes were shining, but she wasn't crying. She was biting her lip, and Leto saw blood on her teeth.

"Quiet, girl, you'll be next!" Cookie said. He held his hand over Varania's mouth. "She doesn't mean it, Mistress," he called. "She's just a girl."

"And her brother is just a boy," Mistress said coolly, her voice carrying over the quiet as the fifteenth stroke fell. _Crack_. "Everyone in _my_ household must be held accountable for their actions. Perhaps she is right now. Perhaps not. We shall have to see."

"It's not her fault!" Leto cried. His voice came out hoarse and wrong past the lump in his throat. "She didn't want me to go! Leave Verry alone!"

_Crack! Crack!_

"Don't, boy!" Cookie snapped.

"The child gives _me_ orders," Mistress observed. "Your little friend's a strong one, Xenia. I can see why you took a fancy to him."

"He's not _my_ friend," Xenia told Mistress. She was wrapped around Mistress's leg, just like she had wrapped around the tree branch. She stared at him. She looked confused. But she didn't look sorry at all. "He's a knife-ear. A slave. He pushed me."

_It's a _lie, Leto thought. _She's a _liar. He sobbed, but he knew better than to say it now.

"And do you know better than to leave your nurse and play with brats like him now, darling?" Mistress asked her.

Xenia nodded.

"Good. A dozen more, I think, Dain," Mistress said. "Make sure he learns his lesson. Varania, I think you've learned yours. You won't be punished. Today. Come along, Xenia. Let's get you back to the nursery. Isla!"

She walked away, passing Xenia's small, bandaged hand to Isla. Xenia looked over her shoulder one last time, then followed her mother and her nurse inside.

And Dain whipped Leto again and again and again, until there was blood running down his back and his arms in several places, and when the rope was untied, he fell to the ground and couldn't move, and Mother had to carry him inside.


	8. Cassandra: Come On, Cassie

**Characters: **Cassandra Pentaghast, OFC Violet, Anthony Pentaghast. Matthias, Tigana, and Vestalus Pentaghast and various OCs mentioned but not participating.

**Pairings: **None

**AU Elements: **None

* * *

**9:08 Dragon**

**The Rooms of Vestalus Pentaghast, the Grand Necropolis, Nevarra**

Cassandra slammed the door as hard as she could behind her. She was crying, like a baby, but she wasn't sad; she was angry. It burned in her chest and in her stomach, and the taste in her mouth was worse than stewed cabbage. She rubbed her eyes. She wasn't a baby anymore; she shouldn't be crying, but she couldn't stop, and that just made her angrier.

They didn't listen! No one ever listened! Cassandra screamed with frustration. The room Uncle Vestalus had made up for her smelled like flowers and incense, but that was to cover up the smell of all the dead people in the Grand Necropolis. The house just next door wasn't a house at all; it was a tomb, and Uncle Vestalus visited there and a dozen other places every day, seeing the tombs cleaned, dressing up the dead bodies, and doing other secret, mage things. He always came back to his house smelling like embalming oils and dust, and all the dried flowers and incense around was just because he didn't like it either.

Cassandra stared at the incense holder on the vanity, the bowls of dried flowers on the washing table, and suddenly, she wanted to smash them both. She marched over to the vanity, saw the smoldering ends of the incense sticks. She stamped her foot. She _couldn't_ do anything about them. Fine, then. She would smash the bowl! She _would_!

Running over to the washing table, she picked up the bowl of dried flowers and hurled it at the wall. With a crash, it smashed to pieces, and the flowers went fluttering down. Cassandra smiled with mean satisfaction. She ran to the wardrobe, flung it open, and started tearing out the dresses Violet had put there.

"There! And there!" she cried, furious.

The door slammed open behind her. "Princess! What are you doing?"

Violet sounded horrified. Good! She should be horrified!

"I'm not a princess!" Cassandra shouted at her, throwing a hanger across the bed and tearing the bedclothes down. "If I was, they would _listen_ to me!"

"Stop, milady, please! You're ruining all your pretty things!" Violet rushed to the wardrobe, trying to get in the way. Her face was pink and worried, her pretty eyes wide.

Cassandra screamed in her face. "_Good_! I _want_ to ruin them! _Go away_! Just go away!"

"Milady!"

"I want my mother!" Cassandra yelled. "Mother, not you! Not stupid Uncle Vestalus! Go away!"

"Cassie!"

That was a new voice. Cassandra whirled and saw Anthony in the door. She flew at him, and he caught her up in his arms and held her as she sobbed. "Why don't they _listen_?" she cried. "Why did they send us _here_? I _hate_ it here, 'Tonio! I _hate_ it!"

Anthony still smelled like home—like horses and leather and a little bit of sandalwood. He tugged on her braids, tied back behind her head. "There, it's not so bad," he told her. She felt his voice tickling in his chest. "How many kids get to stay in the Grand Necropolis? Five or six in all of Nevarra? It's an honor. And Mother and Father will be back soon. They promised."

"They always promise," Cassandra said. "But they always send us away again. Why do they send us away? Don't they _want_ us?"

"You're being stupid," 'Tonio told her firmly. "Of course they do. But they've got responsibilities to the family and to Nevarra, like we'll have someday. You know what Father says: 'Families raise children, not just parents.'"

"I'd rather be at Uncle Ehren and Aunt Liesl's then," Cassandra said stubbornly. "_Their_ house doesn't smell, and I could still see Ernst and Abel."

"You know Aunt Liesl's been sick, Cassie. We couldn't go there this time. It had to be Uncle Vestalus. Now, what have you been doing here?"

Anthony pushed her out to arms' length, and Cassandra looked around the room. She saw the shards of the bowl she had thrown all over the floor, her dresses scattered and wrinkled. One or two of them had ripped, and Violet was trying to cross to them, but she had to avoid the glass on the floor. It would cut her bare feet if she stepped in the wrong place.

"I'm just so mad," Cassandra said in a small voice.

"So be mad," Anthony told her. "But don't be mean. You should know better. Violet can't stop you; she's a servant, and now you've given her extra work."

"It's no trouble at all, Master Anthony," Violet said quietly. She had stopped trying to cross the floor, and stared down at it instead.

"It is," Anthony disagreed, "And she shouldn't have done it. She's a bigger girl than that. Aren't you, Cassie?"

Cassandra was ashamed of herself. "I should have been," she told Anthony. She pulled away from her brother, walked across to Violet, and dropped into a curtsey. "I'm sorry, Violet. I can be better. I will be. I'll help you pick everything up."

She got down on the floor and picked up the largest shard of glass. "Don't touch that, milady, you'll cut yourself," Violet told her. "Why don't you start with the bed instead?"

Cassandra nodded and went to do as she was told. Beside her, she saw Anthony had come in too. He was picking up her dresses, sorting the wrinkled ones out from the ripped ones. Cassandra frowned at him. "Don't you have lessons?" she demanded. "History and swordplay and horse-riding?"

"And music and reading and Orlesian and mathematics," Anthony agreed lightly. He smiled at her. "You want to know a secret?"

Cassandra finished putting her pillow in place and went to join him by her wardrobe. He handed her the wrinkled dresses, and she gathered them into her arms to carry to the laundry hamper. "Tell me!"

"I'd rather be picking up messes with you," Anthony told her. "Those crabby old tutors scare me."

Cassandra closed the hamper and turned around to stare at 'Tonio. She didn't believe him! He was nine years old, almost grown up, really. He wasn't afraid of anything! She sniffed. "I'm not afraid of your stupid old tutors," she declared. "I'll go with you if you like."

"Would you really?" Anthony asked her.

Cassandra nodded. "I would!" She glanced back at Violet. "If it's all right with you, Violet?" she asked.

Violet had been sweeping up the glass and flowers behind them. "Quite all right, pri—milady," she said. "You and your lord brother have been a good help. My thanks."

Cassandra looked down at the floor. "We wouldn't have had to help if I hadn't been stupid," she said quietly. "Sorry again."

Anthony smiled at her, and Violet set down the dustpan and walked over the floor. She smoothed down some hair that had gotten out of Cassandra's braids. "There now, milady. We all have bad moments every now and then, don't we? You should've seen the tantrums my little brother used to throw. Fighting his big brothers and the neighbors! We'll call it forgotten, and I'll get you some new flowers for your room."

Cassandra shook her head. "Can you get some pine branches instead, please?" she asked. "Father got some for me the last time we stayed with Uncle Vestalus. They smell more like the outside, for real. And they smell like home."

Violet smiled at her. "I'll do that, milady. I suppose I'll see you back here after supper?"

Cassandra nodded, and sighed. She always had to go to bed early at Uncle Vestalus's. There weren't any neighbors to play with after supper, and none of his servants had any children. Uncle Vestalus never read to her, and she didn't think Violet knew how to read.

Anthony handed the ripped clothes to Violet and turned back to Cassandra. "So, will you save me from those scary old tutors?"

Cassandra lifted her chin. "Let's go."

"Then come on, Cassie!" Anthony reached out and took her hand, and they left the room together.

* * *

**A/N: Because I always like to acknowledge my influences where it's appropriate, I should say that young Cassandra is largely inspired by Frances Hodgson Burnett's Mary Lennox. Imperious and lonely, she is used to getting her own way and has a terrible temper. I imagine Cassandra's parents have had a little more involvement with their daughter than Mary's did. They are distant because they are busy and not because they are disinterested, and Cassandra's morals and temperament have been moderated by the influence of her older brother Anthony. But the basic idea is a similar one: Cassandra's parents are rarely there for her. They are always off doing important, grown-up things, and Cassandra has been left to the care of numerous relatives and servants for a large part of what she can remember—oftentimes in a place she doesn't care for or belong to—and subsequently feels angry and abandoned.**

**I feel like Cassandra would have been a problem child in any case, though. She could be the case study for "strong-willed child." I might have often been inclined to laugh at her. **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	9. Gwyn: Children of Peace

**Characters**: William Cousland, Bryce Cousland, OFC Allison, Fergus Cousland, OFC Themis, Nan, F!Cousland (Gwyn)

**Pairings**: Bryce/Eleanor Cousland

**AU Elements: **William Cousland, father to Bryce and grandfather to Fergus, is not dead yet but is still teyrn in Highever. In fact, William's history, as you'll see, is rather different than in canon. If he was teyrn at Castle Cousland before the Orlesian occupation, see, that would make him near seventy when he fathered Bryce, and I found that creepy. Also overly simplistic considering how many people died in the Orlesian invasion and the long rebellion afterward. So William is probably nearly thirty years younger than most would extrapolate from canon, he was _not_ the son of Teyrn Ardal Cousland, who died near the beginning of the Orlesian invasion defending King Vanedrin, and there were three teyrns before him (two of them exiles, because the Couslands refused to submit to Orlesian rule, fled Highever, and became rebels very early), all of whom died relatively young, with various other Couslands and half-Couslands in various battles they fought under the banner of first Brandel and then Moira Theirin.

* * *

**9:10 Dragon**

**Castle Cousland, the Teyrnir of Highever, Ferelden**

William Cousland sat by the hearth in the hall. His son was a dark shadow against the flickering torches along the wall. His anxiety was plain enough in the way that he paced, back and forth like a wind through the hall, boots clicking on the centuries-old, weathered stone, though William had lost the ability to make out faces at any distance years ago. William tried to turn his attention back to the book in his lap, thankful that here, at least, his eyes had not begun to fail him yet, but his mind wandered. On the other side of the keep, his daughter-in-law, Bryce's wife, Eleanor, was birthing his second grandchild, and William understood his son's restlessness all too well.

Birthing was a dangerous business. Bryce had lost his mother when he was only a day old to the ordeal. William's son had no memories of Aileen, and it had been so long ago now that William's own recollections had faded. She had been a small, peaceful sort of person, possessed of a quiet bravery. He remembered her as a pair of warm, brown eyes, a swish of plaid, gentle hands after a battle, and the smell of salves and tinctures. He had found her like Bryce had found Eleanor, in exile, in the middle of what had seemed to be an unending war, and the brief peace they had found together had been far too short.

But Eleanor was a different woman than his Aileen had been, in a different situation. Tonight, she gave birth in her own home, with women to attend her and everything she needed, not in a tent in a hidden war camp in the winter. Her strength—that of the Seawolf of a people that did not go to sea—had already seen her through the pregnancy and birthing of Bryce's firstborn, Fergus, and Nan had foreseen no difficulties with this birth either. Bryce's nervousness seemed uncalled for, yet William acknowledged that he would have loved his son the less had he had less care for his wife—and he was more afraid for Eleanor himself than he wanted to admit. He loved the capable, levelheaded, and gracious woman his son had married as his own daughter.

Young Fergus had been dashing about all day, impossible to pin down in his enthusiasm to greet his new brother or sister. One of the elven servants, Themis, had finally gotten him to sleep while his nurse attended Eleanor—three long hours after his bedtime.

William gave up on his book, closed the cover, and tapped his fingers upon the cover, contemplative. There was something immensely satisfying in the excitement the boy took in this mundane reality of life, he thought. Fergus had witnessed no battles. He had never lived in a camp, never had to flee a town for fear of Orlesian chevaliers like his father, aunt, uncle, or cousins. If the Maker was kind, he would grow up to possess the teyrnir as he was meant to, see his brother or sister, and any brothers and sisters Bryce and Eleanor might give him later, settled well elsewhere.

William had been the third child of the sister of Teyrn Ardal Cousland. Teyrn Ardal had had his own heirs, and William had never been meant to hold Highever. But the invasion and the long years of the Orlesian occupation had exacted a heavy toll on his family. William had been fatherless before he had drawn his first breath. He had been born in exile, and until his sixty-fourth year, the title "Teyrn of Highever," for the true Fereldans, had been a meaningless courtesy, belonging to a succession of ragged rebels cast out from their home and forced to fight for their very survival. William had seen his mother, sister, brother, and cousins all slain on Orlesian swords. They had, all of them, been orphaned too young, raised by aunt, by brother or sister or cousin, and died too young themselves.

Fergus had always known his home, had always known his parents. The child of peace had no idea of how blessed he was, or of the blood that had been shed to give him that peace. The child Eleanor bore tonight would be the same, and William could only be grateful for it.

"It will be well, Bryce," William told his son, still pacing up and down the hall. "There's no measuring the time a birthing takes. You know that. Try and relax."

"That hardly seems fair to poor Eleanor." William heard the smile in his son's voice. "I wish they would let me stay by her side."

William raised his eyebrows in the general direction of his son. "She allowed you to do so with Fergus, if I recall correctly. You panicked and fainted—not once but twice—and Eleanor and Nan decreed that if you couldn't be of use in the birthing room, you could simply come see the babe when it's born as is custom."

"I don't know how they do it," Bryce said. "What happens in that room is more gruesome than any battlefield I've seen."

"And requires just as high a courage," William agreed. "But you know Eleanor possesses courage in abundance."

"More than I do, for this," Bryce admitted. The door to the hall creaked open, and William heard the gentle slap of bare feet on stone. One of the elven servants.

"Milord Teyrn, Ser Bryce, the Lady Eleanor is delivered safely of a little daughter!" a young woman's voice reported.

The pall lifted from the hall, and William smiled. Bryce bounded forward, and even from where he sat, William could tell how his face had changed. "A daughter! Eleanor must be so pleased; she badly wanted a girl. Is the child well?"

"Perfectly well, milord, and a beautiful set of lungs on her too," the elf girl laughed. "Milady Eleanor welcomes you both back to see her, if you will."

William rose from his chair, walked over to the nearby table, and poured a glass of wine he had sent for just for this purpose for himself and for Bryce. Bryce came over and took his glass, drinking a little in celebration. "You'll want to wake Fergus," William guessed.

Now that Bryce stood just feet from him, William could see him beaming. He guessed the boy was just as pleased with a daughter as he claimed his wife would be, or more. There had not been a Cousland daughter born since little Leana Cousland, born three years before William himself and slain with her father, mother, and grandmother—Ardal's widow, the day the Orlesians finally took Highever. William's own parents had taken a small militia and their own two children and managed to save Leana's fifteen-year-old uncle, brother to Teyrn Talbott. The family had fled and joined the rebels, Elliot Cousland had become the first teyrn in exile, and there had been nothing but sons ever since—and only children.

Come to think of it, William understood Fergus's excitement.

Bryce tapped his finger on his wineglass, musing. "We only just got Fergus to sleep. If we wake him tonight, Nan will never get him down again." He drained his wineglass, and then grinned. "And what of it?" he said suddenly. "It's not every night a young man's a brother, after all. Allison, did they already wake Fergus?" he asked the elf. "Did Lady Eleanor give instructions regarding him?"

"No, milord. Will you want to wake him yourself?"

"I think so," Bryce said. "We'll go to see him together. Thank you, Allison. Take this bottle to the servants' quarters, and open a cask of ale. We should all celebrate tonight."

"Thank you, milord!"

William followed Bryce through the castle toward the family quarters. The chill of the early spring bit through the halls of the uncovered keep, and William drew his cloak closer around him. Above the banners that bridged the corridors, the sky was clear and bright with stars. William heard the hooting of an owl, and from the family quarters ahead, the crying of an angry newborn babe as she first began to quiet.

They entered the shelter of the family quarters, out of the wind, and William heard Nan and Eleanor's soft voices from the room on the left that Eleanor shared with Bryce. William and Bryce turned right instead, and as they entered the room of William's grandson, the fire lit in his hearth threw its light over the wide eyes and excited face of the small boy of seven waiting there.

Fergus had drawn his coverlet over his head like a hood. He was still lying down, but his dancing brown eyes—the image of his grandmother's, if he had only known it—were wide open and snapping with anticipation. "It's here, isn't it?" he whispered. "The baby's here. I heard when the sounds changed. It woke me up."

"You have a little sister, Fergus," Bryce told his son, and the boy actually bounced on the bed. He clutched the bedclothes around him as if to hold himself back.

"Father, do I _have_ to wait until morning to see her?" he asked.

"Nay, son. Your grandfather and I have come to bring you."

Fergus sprang from his bed. Without stopping to put on dressing gown or slippers, he dashed past his father and William, out the door, and across the hall. William laughed aloud. "Gently, Fergus," he called after the boy. "Your lady mother will be weary. Have a care!"

Fergus's shout of acknowledgment floated back across the hall. Bryce chuckled. "His Nan will have a few things to say to him, running out of here like that."

"It seems somehow unfair that scoundrel see his sister before you see your daughter or I my granddaughter," William observed.

His son seemed amused. "Could you have caught him?" he asked simply.

The two of them followed Fergus and found Eleanor's hearth burning brightly and the lamps all lit. Themis was just finishing tying off a new braid into Eleanor's sandy hair. She smoothed the coverlet over her lady. "The water pitcher is right by you, milady," she said. "I'm sure Milord Bryce will be more than happy to help you with it, if need be, but if you need anything from me or anyone, just call."

"Thank you, Themis. I'm sure Teyrn Cousland or my husband has already ordered some wine for the servants. You might go see if you can have some before the morning."

Themis murmured a thanks and one final blessing on Eleanor and made her way out of the room. In the corner by the hearth, Nan had Fergus by the ear. She was scolding up a storm, warning him he might have hurt someone running in pell-mell as he had and that he'd surely catch his death swanning about without dressing gown or shoes on the cold stone, with the winter only half-gone yet.

"I was watching for you and the others," the unrepentant sinner protested. "And I _couldn't_ remember my gown and slippers, Nan, I was too excited! Could _you_ remember your gown and slippers, Nan, if _your_ baby sister had just been born today? Ow, leggo! I want to see her!"

Nan broke out into fresh recriminations, but they had already lost some of their heat. One of the last to have lost a husband to the rebellion, Ceitrin Pulver was only a few years older than Eleanor. If she had borne children, they very well could have been of an age with Bryce and Eleanor's, and while she had a rougher tongue than a cat, the woman Eleanor had brought with her from the Storm Coast to be nurse to her children, cook in their kitchens, and general healer was a kind creature deep down. She was devoted to Eleanor, and loved Fergus as if he were her very own.

Eleanor was half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, bolstered by pillows some of the women had to have arranged around her, nursing the new babe. She was a pretty picture there, as natural as anything, rosy-cheeked and beaming, her green eyes bright. Bryce walked over to the bed and sat on the coverlet beside her. He dropped a kiss on Eleanor's forehead. She kissed his cheek in turn and adjusted the babe in her arms.

"So, it's to be Gwyn, then?" Bryce asked quietly.

"That's right," Eleanor agreed.

William smiled. The name had a tang of the southeastern coast to it—not of Highever nor of Eleanor's own home on the Storm Coast but of Gwaren, where his own father had come from before he wed Manda Cousland. He did not know if it was intentional; Eleanor had written friends all over Ferelden for suggestions on names for her children, and Gwyn was a fine name for her daughter however she and Bryce had thought of it, but it pleased him to imagine that, even if he had taken his mother's name for the good of his people, some part of his father's heritage carried on in his family line.

"A lovely name, daughter," he said gravely to Eleanor.

"Yes, I liked it," Eleanor said. The child had stopped nursing, and Eleanor wiped her lips and burped her against a shoulder. She looked down at her daughter. "She looks like you, Bryce."

There was a rueful note in her voice that Bryce caught at once. He chuckled. "Such disappointment, my love. One might believe you less than fond of your husband's face!"

Fergus, released from Nan's lecturing at last, came up to the bed. William made room for him, and Fergus's hand slipped into his own with trusting ease. "What do you mean Mother isn't fond of your face, Father? What's going on?"

"Apparently, my daughter resembles me, and your Mother says it like it's a bad thing. I'm almost hurt," Bryce teased.

Fergus frowned, and Eleanor laughed, acknowledging the teasing. "I like your face well enough, but I had hoped to have _some_ remembrance in the faces of my children," she returned.

"But you do, Mother," Fergus argued. "My nose is like yours, see?" He turned his head sideways and pointed to demonstrate.

"And it's a wonderful comfort to me, you can be sure," Eleanor told him, reaching her hand to grip Fergus's other one. He squeezed it tightly, grinning.

"Let me see my daughter, then," Bryce said, reaching for the child. Eleanor helped him take Gwyn. She was awake, squinting in the firelight and waving her small arms in all directions. "I confess, I don't see what you're complaining about, Eleanor," Bryce remarked. "She seems the most beautiful girl in all Ferelden to me." He held her up to Fergus. "What do you think, Fergus?"

Fergus stared thoughtfully at his sister. He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked up at William. William hid a smile, and nodded encouragingly at the boy. "I don't know what she's supposed to look like," Fergus admitted at last. "I've never seen a baby before, except Themis's, far away, and she was an elf baby. Is she supposed to be so . . . squashed and purply?"

His parents laughed. "Just so were you, the first three days or so," Eleanor informed her son.

"I wasn't! Was I?" Fergus looked to William again, appalled.

William nodded gravely. "She is supposed to be squashy," he told his grandson. "Not all new babes are purple—some are yellow. Purple means her humors are well balanced, and she is unlikely to fall ill. She will turn redder in the next few days, and then much the same color as you and me."

Fergus took a moment to contemplate this. "Her hair's dark like mine and Father's," he told his mother then. "Is that what you mean, that she looks like Father, Mother?"

"That, and the shape of her face," Eleanor told him. "See, here and here?" She reached over to Bryce and traced the lines of her daughter's cheeks, over her forehead, then grabbed her foot. "And her feet are long and bony like your father's too, see?" She tickled the foot, which, indeed, looked rather long for an infant's. Gwyn kicked reflexively and waved her fists in the air, and Eleanor laughed.

But Fergus frowned and wrapped his fingers around his mother's around his sister's foot. "I _like_ them that way," he said decisively. "I like _her_." He looked up into Bryce's face. "She's wonderful, Father."

"Aye, that she is, son," Bryce said.

"Did I ever say she wasn't?" Eleanor demanded, indignant. "She's my daughter, and I adore her. If she has large feet like my husband, perhaps she will also grow up tall and strong."

She shifted on the bed and politely hid a yawn.

Across the room, Nan spoke up, "The Lady Eleanor should sleep, Milord Bryce, Teyrn Cousland. She's as brave and good as can be, but it's been a long, hard day for her, all the same."

"What's the use of having a baby if my family won't come and admire me for it afterwards?" Eleanor asked, nestling down into the bedclothes nevertheless. "And I should accustom myself to weariness again. It will be months yet before we truly sleep now, you know."

Bryce sighed. "Alas, one of the hazards of an expanding family. We shall endeavor to make the sacrifice bravely. Still, I think Ceitrin is quite right. We should leave you."

"But I'm not sleepy," Fergus protested. "And Gwyn's still awake, see? Why can't we stay with her longer?"

"You'll have plenty of time to sit with your sister in the future," William told his grandson. "Indeed, I imagine one day, not too many years away, you'll be sick of her."

Fergus scowled to hear such blasphemy. "I won't either! She's my sister! And I'm going to teach her everything, you'll see. How to climb for apples in the orchard, and get the kittens in the stable to trust her, and reading and numbers and swordplay once I learn, and _everything_."

He glared up at William, daring him to disagree, and Bryce reached out with the arm not holding Gwyn to hug his son close. "I don't doubt it, son. I'm certain you two little warriors will have years to become the best of friends. Starting _tomorrow_."

Fergus turned his glare to his father for a moment, then sighed. "Fine," he assented at last. "I'll go back to bed. But I won't sleep. I can't!" Even as he spoke, he yawned, and Nan strode forward to take him from William. William released his grandson's hand, and Fergus left his side.

"'Night, Mother," he said, bending over to kiss Eleanor's cheek. "'Night, Father. 'Night, Grandfather. He paused, staring back down at his little sister, and his warm, brown eyes lit up again. "'Night, Gwyn," he whispered. Then he took Nan's hand and left with her to go back to his chamber.

"Here, Father," Bryce said to William then, handing over the child. "Careful, I think my daughter feels it's time for her to sleep as well. She was already dropping off when Fergus made his appeal."

William took his granddaughter as he had wished to do since they first arrived in the room. He was hardly unfamiliar with children, but he always seemed to forget how small they were upon arrival, how strong yet fragile they seemed. His granddaughter's features, while veiled somewhat in the softness of her newborn face, the different proportions all infants shared, did recall her father's—though like her brother, she seemed to have inherited Eleanor's nose and something like her chin besides. But her closed lashes were long, thick, and smoky black where they brushed her cheeks. It was too early to know what color those eyes would end up being—blue like William's and Bryce's, green like her mother's, or warm brown like the eyes her brother had inherited from lost Aileen—but William had a feeling that whether little Gwyn grew into Bryce's face or not, her eyes would be spectacular.

"The first Cousland daughter in nearly eighty years," he said aloud, voicing his thoughts from earlier in the night. "And I myself was the last Cousland with elder siblings, though the three of us did not use that name then.

"It seems a small thing," he continued quietly, eyes beginning to sting as he looked down at his granddaughter. "People have children every day. Yet to welcome this girl, here, in our home—" William's throat closed up, and he bowed his head. "The Maker's blessed us, Bryce, Eleanor. In the sleepless nights to come; when she and Fergus bicker and quarrel, as siblings do; when she defies us and cries we are unfair, cruel, and she hates us all and wants to run off to Antiva—remember how blessed we are." William swallowed, and with shaking hands, passed his granddaughter back to her mother.

Eleanor's face was grave. "I know it," she whispered. "I won't forget. Thank you, Father."

William shook his head, and Bryce reached out to clasp his shoulder. "Thank you," William managed. He reached out, took Eleanor's hand, and kissed it, embraced his son, and left the pair of them to their daughter and to their joy. Like Fergus, William was uncertain he _could_ sleep tonight. But like Fergus, he would have tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and for now, that was enough.

* * *

**A/N: So as I was thinking about this comprehensive overview of characters from all these different cultures and backgrounds and socioeconomic statuses, I determined I badly needed to introduce a grandparent. We were missing one, and Teryn William was the best candidate, especially given the insight he would have into the recent Orlesian occupation that is so important in Ferelden in these years. He had a better take on it than even another character I'll introduce in the next installment of this series, who was a child during Maric's Rebellion. **

** So William had to live, and I'm glad I made him younger to resurrect him, because the idea of him siring Bryce at age seventy or thereabouts is creepy. **

** Of course, what's the point of resurrecting a grandfather if you don't use him, especially since I've already done a father and a brother POV in this little series? So I crawled into William's head this chapter and ended up creating a whole backstory for the Cousland family up to 8:80 Blessed, after which it pretty much proceeds like canon except that William doesn't die. This backstory is more or less useless to me except in understanding William for this one chapter, but hey, whatever. The sacrifices we make for art, right?**

**Also, a note on genetics: I'm aware that Fergus's canon eye color (brown), should be impossible with the parents he's got. Bryce Cousland (blue eyes) and Eleanor Cousland (green eyes), should have kids with all blue or green eyes. But we'll assume people in the Dragon Age don't understand genetics either (seeing as the game designers didn't take it into account), and so William can think that Fergus got his brown eyes from his grandmother, while he really shouldn't have gotten them at all (though Eleanor definitely didn't cheat; Fergus otherwise looks just like Bryce). **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	10. Cassandra: Spare Them, My Liege

**Characters: **Cassandra Pentaghast, Anthony Pentaghast, OMC Benin, OFC Marte mentioned but not participating, various OMC guards and nobles, OFC nobles, Markus Pentaghast, and Vestalus Pentaghast

**Pairings: **None

**AU Elements: **None

* * *

**9:10 Dragon**

**The Estate of Matthias Pentaghast, Cumberland, and the Royal Palace, Nevarra City, Nevarra**

There was shouting outside. The halls of the house were empty. Almost all of the doors were open. So were Mother's jewelry case and the drawer for the silver in the kitchen. This afternoon, when Marte had ordered her to pack, Cassandra had opened her wardrobe to find there was hardly anything left to pack: someone had taken most of her dresses. This morning, there had been twelve servants in the house. After luncheon, Cassandra had called out to Agnes to help her with her trunk, and Agnes had ignored her and walked the other way. Now, the only two servants with them were Marte and Benin. Cassandra didn't know if they would leave too if they still could. They couldn't anymore.

The soldiers were coming. Anthony had seen two of their own guards outside with King Markus's men. When he had told Benin, the old driver had spat: "Cowards. Hoping the king doesn't execute them for traitors, never mind they're committing treachery to convince him."

The message the boy had given them this morning didn't seem real: Mother and Father, traitors. Discovered in a plot against King Markus with several conspirators. Several of them captured. Mother and Father already killed in the struggle.

Mother and Father, dead. She had read the note herself this morning, sent by Cousin Oscar in a hurry, and in secret. He had warned them to run, that the immediate families of all the conspirators would be rounded up as traitors, whether or not they had been involved in the plot. They had already taken Uncle Ehren and Aunt Liesl, and Oscar had only been spared because he had not lived or been close with his parents these four years.

Cassandra had been reading a whole year now, but for a moment, she thought she hadn't understood the message. Mother and Father had been home just last week, talking about lessons with Anthony at supper, saying the Chant with the two of them in the morning. Father had walked with her in the gardens. He had shown her a map of the Free Marches he had bought for his collection in Nevarra City. Everything had been fine. Now they were traitors. Dead like the bodies in the Grand Necropolis, and if something else came to live inside them, it wouldn't be Mother and Father anymore but some Fade spirit that wouldn't even know Cassandra or Anthony. It felt like nonsense, a bad dream or a silly joke.

But when Marte had leaped into action, ordering Cassandra to get her things, to get ready to leave—that felt real. Only with the servants run away and everything going missing, they hadn't moved fast enough. Ten minutes ago, Anthony had heard a neighbor say they had closed the city gates. Four minutes ago, he had seen the soldiers marching up the street toward the house.

Benin and Marte had ordered them to stay in Cassandra's room. There had been three guards that had stayed. One of them was standing outside the door now. Benin and Marte were with the other two at the front of the house. They had promised they would try to keep the soldiers away.

Anthony stood by the wardrobe now. His fingers tightened and loosened around the hilt of the sword Father had only allowed him to have three weeks ago. He was so tall—but he was skinny, too, Cassandra thought, and he looked very white as he stared at the blade of the sword.

"They're going to die, aren't they?" Cassandra asked, very quietly. "Benin and Marte and the guards. They're all going to die. We're going to die." She giggled then, but somehow, tears were running down her cheeks too. It was nonsense, a bad dream or a silly joke.

Anthony moved then. He crossed the room, sheathed his sword, and pulled something out of his jacket. It was a knife, Cassandra saw—just a common belt knife, really, for carving up kindling and cutting knotted rope and things like that, but its sheath was shiny and soft, and when Cassandra took it out, the blade was wickedly sharp. "Benin gave this to me the day you were born," Anthony told her. "You know that story—bandits attacked us on the road, and he knew I had to be ready to protect you. Cassandra, they're going to have to kill me before they can hurt you or take you away." He swallowed. "But it might not be enough. You should be ready to fight too. Take this."

Cassandra wrapped her fingers tight around the hilt. "I don't know how to use it."

The door to the bedroom fell open with a crash. The guard fell into Cassandra's room. His legs were broken, and he was gasping. He whimpered like a dog, face a white-green Cassandra had never seen before. As she watched, another soldier reached down and stabbed him in the throat. Blood welled up around the soldier's sword, redder than the flowers in the garden. The guard gurgled. His eyes were wide and staring. Then Cassandra couldn't look anymore.

They were in the room.

Anthony yelled and ran at them, sword raised. Cassandra wanted to run, to hide in the shadows of the wardrobe, but Anthony was fighting them, trying to push the first two soldiers back out of her room. His sword seemed to shriek on theirs. Anthony was cursing, crying as he fought them. He got under the guard of one and stabbed him, up under the ribs. But then a third man came into the room, behind Anthony. He brought his sword down from above and hit Anthony in the head with the pommel and his gauntleted fist. Anthony went limp and fell.

Cassandra screamed and flew at the man, knife raised. She would kill him! She would kill them all! But a soldier caught her arm as it came up with the knife. Hands closed around her, and picked her up off the floor. Cassandra punched and kicked and bit, but someone tore the knife out of her hand. She was thrown over an armored shoulder, her legs and arms pinned helplessly by arms almost as big as she was.

As she was carried away, Cassandra saw Anthony lying on the floor beside the dead guard, white and still. The blood from the dead guard's throat was pooling in Anthony's hair. "No!" Cassandra yelled. "No! No! No! No! No!"

* * *

THREE WEEKS LATER

"You should eat, Cassie," Anthony said. He pushed the porridge the guard had brought them this morning at her.

"Why?" Cassandra demanded. "They're going to kill us. And yesterday's had weevils in it."

"Extra flavor and energy," Anthony joked. "Cassie, please. For me?"

Cassandra looked up into Anthony's face. The light was bad in the cell they shared in King Markus's dungeon. The torches down here were too far outside the cell, and the light only came in through the tiny window at the top of the wall at certain times during the day, but Cassie could still see how much thinner he looked after just three weeks. It was scary. Anthony had never been a fat boy. Even though the bruise on his forehead had faded to yellow, his black hair was all clumped together with dirt and blood because the soldiers hadn't given them a chance to wash after taking them from home—not on the road or anywhere else. He smelled. She smelled. And the guards didn't take the chamberpot away often enough. They had to share, each turning their back when they needed it, so_ everything_ smelled. Their second day here, Cassandra had noticed little bugs crawling on their blankets. It was disgusting. But even worse was not knowing when the soldiers would come to take them to the king—or if they ever would.

She didn't want to be here anymore. She wished she was already dead, with Mother and Father and Marthe and Benin and all the rest of them. The Chant of Light said the spirits of the dead went back to the Fade to stay at the Maker's side, and that had to be better than this.

But she didn't want to go without Anthony.

She took her bowl from him and the rough wooden spoon they had to share. "All right," she muttered. "For _you_."

He waited until she was done before he took the spoon back to finish his. It had to be even nastier now it had gone cold, but Anthony didn't say anything about it. "You should go first next time," Cassandra told him quietly. "Or we'll take turns."

"Don't worry about me," Anthony told her. "At least they're feeding us, right?"

Cassandra snorted. She drew her legs up in front of her chest and wrapped her arms around them against the cold. Then she heard the door at the top of the stairs slam open and boots coming down. More boots than just the guard that would take their bowls away.

Anthony straightened. "They're coming."

There were four soldiers this time. They all towered over Cassandra. Even Anthony. Three weeks ago, she had thought he was so grown up. Now she knew he wasn't, not really. But when they stood together, she still reached out for his hand.

One of them brought up a ring of heavy, iron keys and unlocked their cell. He opened the door, and another stepped inside. "Hands?" he asked, taking some rope from his belt.

Anthony shook his head. "You don't need to bind us, ser. We won't fight or try to escape. There's no point anymore. I'm not armed, and my sister is a child."

"They're both children," one of the guards muttered. He looked uncomfortable.

"They're traitors," the guard with the keys said, but his cheek next to his mustache twitched.

"Do they look dangerous to you?" the guard who had complained before demanded, thrusting his hand in their direction.

"You took my knife and Anthony's sword, and Anthony's hurt," Cassandra said. "We couldn't hurt you even if we wanted to now. Just kill us here if that's what you're supposed to do."

Anthony squeezed her hand. She was trying to sound brave, but her voice shook, and one tear fell down her cheek. Cassandra went hot with shame but stuck her chin out and closed her eyes.

"Just—just come with us," the guard with the keys decided. Cassandra opened her eyes. "Braun, Keller, walk behind them. Wagner, with me. And you, little lord, you two better be as harmless as you claim. If either of you try anything, we _won't_ hesitate to hurt you, and it won't go well for you at the trial."

"I understand," Anthony said. "Come on, Cassie."

Cassandra hesitated, then followed the guard with the keys and the man who had complained—Wagner—out of the cell.

"You're not supposed to kill us?" she asked after a little.

There was silence for a long moment, then one of the guards behind them answered. "Not yet, milady. The king wants you brought up to the throne room for judgment."

Cassandra glanced at Anthony. His jaw was set, and he squeezed her hand still tighter.

The king could decide not to kill them, Cassandra knew. He was the king. He could do whatever he wanted. But why would he? And where would they go, even if he decided not to kill them? How many relatives would want to take them, after Mother and Father had been caught doing what they'd done? And what if the king decided to banish them from Nevarra? What would they do then?

The guards led them up out of the dungeons and down a series of corridors. As they walked, the corridors got lighter and grander, until finally, they were brought through a beautifully carved wooden door and into a great hall.

The floor was marble of all different colors, cut and laid together to form lovely patterns. Enormous candle chandeliers hung overhead. There were sconces on all the walls, and the windows faced east so that sun streamed into the hall. Cassandra could see dozens of men and women standing around the hall—almost all of them old, dressed in clothes as nice as her best dresses had been back home, and looking so serious she wanted to cry. She swallowed and pressed closer to Anthony, feeling very small, very dirty, and very wicked.

She hadn't known about Mother and Father's plot against the king. Neither had Anthony. But she didn't think it mattered here.

The king was an old man. His hair and beard were gray, and his eyes, mouth, and nose were all lined with wrinkles. He wasn't looking at them. Instead, he was looking at his hands, twisting them in his velvet robe.

The herald next to him pounded a standard on the steps leading up to the throne as two of the guards that had brought them here stepped away and the others stepped to either side of Cassandra and Anthony, revealing them to the king and everyone in the hall.

"Before you stands Anthony Alessio Edmund Orlando Vincent Pentaghast and Cassandra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, son and daughter to Matthias and Tigana Pentaghast, traitorous participants in the recent plot against Your Majesty. It is unclear whether either was party to the treachery of their parents, but there are many witnesses that will attest that both are guilty of resisting arrest. The boy, additionally, stands guilty of the murder of one of Your Majesty's soldiers."

Anthony flinched. "He died?" he burst out.

"Silence! The accused will have their chance to speak," one of the men standing near the king thundered.

Cassandra couldn't feel her hand anymore; Anthony was holding it so tightly. He had gone white, and suddenly he was sweating too. "That soldier you stabbed?" Cassandra whispered. "It wasn't murder, Anthony. You were trying to protect us."

"I killed him," Anthony whispered back. "I didn't know that I killed him."

The man who had yelled for them to be quiet spoke again. "It would be better to execute these two, Your Majesty. Traitors breed traitors. Lord Matthias was a dread warrior and dragon hunter, and the Lady Tigana a devious politician—your own royal steward. Their children will grow up to be dangerous, and they will not forgive the deaths of their parents—even if they were innocent of their parents' machinations before now."

Another woman, with red hair and a sour expression, in black satin mourning clothes, spoke up as well. "The boy has already killed a man. One of Your Majesty's own soldiers. Isn't this the very definition of treachery? Eleven years old and a hardened murderer. What will he become if you allow him to grow? His bitch sister will be no better."

The king frowned. "They are _children_, Lady Flora." He looked up at them finally, and he looked as uncomfortable as Wagner down in the dungeons.

"Children grow," the man beside the king said again. "These two have ample reason to hate you."

"Even so," the king said.

"If I may, Your Majesty?"

It took a moment for Cassandra to recognize the man that had spoken—a mage, in long, brown brocade robes trimmed with gold. Then she did. It was Uncle Vestalus, dressed in formal court regalia. He hadn't been killed or punished. She looked up at Anthony, and saw a desperate hope in her brother's face.

"Vestalus," King Markus said. "Speak."

Uncle Vestalus walked forward and knelt in front of King Markus's throne. "Please, Sire, my brother and sister-in-law's plot against you was ill-advised, against law and against the Maker, but my niece and nephew are innocent. Children talk, Sire. Why would my brother and sister-in-law risk their plans by confiding in their young children? They knew nothing. If they fought when the soldiers came to seize them, it was because they are young. They were afraid, and acted only from that fear, not from any ill-intent. See how peaceably they stand before you now? Unbound and unresisting. I have known them from infancy, Sire. They are good children: pious and noble and honest, both. Spare them, my liege. I beg you. Be merciful and gracious in your victory, and they will remember it. Your people will remember it."

In that moment, Cassandra took back every awful thing she had ever thought about Uncle Vestalus and his strange work in the nasty old Grand Necropolis. She wanted to run and hug him, but Anthony held her back. "Quiet, Cassie," he murmured.

King Markus was focused entirely on Uncle Vestalus. He stroked his beard, then he nodded. "I will heed your plea, Vestalus. I am weary of this shedding of kinsblood. It sickens me. These children are my own royal family. I judge them no threat, and commend them to _you_ that they remain so."

Vestalus seemed to stiffen for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Sire. Thank you."

"Little Lord Anthony," the king said, looking over Vestalus's head at the two of them then.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" Anthony's voice came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. "My apologies.

King Markus waved a hand heavy with golden rings. "I hereby pardon you and your sister of the actions you committed when my soldiers came to seize you at the estate in Cumberland. You are furthermore pardoned for the blood you shed that day. You will not be punished."

"Thank you, Your Majesty—" Anthony began, but Markus frowned.

"I was not finished, boy." Anthony trembled, and bowed for the king to continue.

"Your parents' holdings and assets have been confiscated," the king told them both. "It was the property of traitors, and neither of you will inherit it. You will, however, retain your noble titles and your place in our own royal family. Many will say this is greater mercy and honor than the two of you deserve. I charge you to prove yourselves worthy of it, in our eyes and in the eyes of the Maker. I commend you both to the care of your father's brother Vestalus, our trusted prelate."

King Markus looked back at Vestalus. "Raise them _loyal_, Vestalus," he said, "with the proper respect for the traditions and law of Nevarra."

"I will do so, Your Majesty. Thank you."

King Markus clapped his hands. "Then you are dismissed, Vestalus. Take them away."

Vestalus rose and bowed deeply again. Cassandra, seeing Anthony do the same, dipped into a clumsy curtsey. The redheaded woman, the man beside the king, and several others were still glaring at them, but the king had made his judgment. They wouldn't fight with him, not here. Not now.

The guards let Anthony fall into line behind Vestalus, and he swept out of the hall without looking back at them once. They were going back to the Grand Necropolis, Cassandra knew. From now on, they would live there, among the houses of the dead. But they themselves would not be killed. She didn't know if she wanted to hug Uncle Vestalus anymore or cry. She eventually decided she wanted to cry, but Anthony hugged her, and that made her feel a little bit better.

* * *

**A/N: So that's it for this story, but I'll be posting more one-shots like this soon in a second volume dedicated to 9:11–9:15 Dragon. A review or two just to let me know if I'm on the right track or if this is completely boring and awful or what your favorite chapters were and why would be really helpful. I do write fanfic for myself, but posting it is hard without some sort of feedback. It's never necessary but always really appreciated. Makes my day.**

**Best Always anyway, **

**LMSharp**


	11. Author's Note

Thanks to the person or the people who have submitted guest reviews to this. I can't reply to your reviews, but I appreciate the time you took to give me some feedback. I'm nervous about several different characters for various reasons. With Varric, right now, I worry that he comes across as too mature for his age. I'm glad that he seems authentic to at least some of you reading. I would love to hear from some of the rest of you what your favorite characters and one-shots are. I have the stories already planned, but just from a research perspective, it's fascinating to me to learn which characters other people find most relatable, and which stories are most compelling.

For those of you that were following this story, the sequel—_The Subjects and the Singers of the Song: 9:11–9:15 Dragon—_is now being uploaded. All the characters that have chapters in this first installment will have installments in the second, with the exception of Gwyn Cousland (who will reappear in later stories), and you'll meet four more characters as well. Check it out on my profile to keep reading!


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